Star Lord, Volume 2
by christopher.action.comix
Summary: In Star Lord, Volume 2: Peter Quill/Star Lord, Gamora, and the Guardians continue to move forwards following the events of the movie Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2. This story continues to explore Peter's psyche and that inexplicable 'unspoken thing' between Peter and Gamora. This is rated M primarily for language and the ongoing complexity in Peter and Gamora's relationship.
1. Chapter one: Ordinary

_Sun is shinin' in the sky  
There ain't a cloud in sight  
It's stopped rainin' everybody's in a play  
And don't you know  
It's a beautiful new day, hey hey_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Mr. Blue Sky_

* * *

Chapter One: Ordinary

 _Nova Corps base, Xandar, an open lot adjacent to the primary Xandararian spacecraft hangar_

A light breeze emanates off the northern shores of Xandar's industrial coastline. The intermittent current helps alleviate a solstice-inspired heat wave, the effects of which are magnified by the environmental damage wrecked by a single Celestial's seed.

While Guardian Peter Quill, a.k.a., Star-Lord, and Drax the Destroyer tour the devastated landscape wrought by Quill's egomaniacal father, Ego; Guardian Gamora, a Galaxy Class warrior, opts to remain near the main spacecraft hangar. It is difficult to gauge that which is more surprising, 1) that Gamora does not verbally protest when Nova Corps' Denarian, Rhomann Dey, complies with Quill's request to survey the Celestial seed's destruction, or 2) that of her choice to stay at the largely vacant, and painfully sweltering, Xandarian hangar.

Since the Guardians battled Ego, Gamora has been all but Peter's shadow. Today, her desire for news of the transport and delivery of Peter's impaired Milano appears out of character for an individual who is generally passive about subjects that are outside her field of expertise. Nonetheless, Gamora has faithfully tracked the salvageable wreckage en route from its explosive crash landing on Berhert one earth week prior.

Currently, Gamora meditates beneath the heavy bow of an M-Ship, a vessel that is a slightly larger twin of Quill's Milano. Her eyelids twitch upon sensing the slight movement of another sentient being.

"How long have you been standing there?" Gamora poses, her fingers hover but inches above the hilt of her sword.

"Long enough to do something rash." Guardian Rocket sasses back. "But it's only 'coz of my ardent desire for self-preservation," he artfully arcs into full view, "that I've learned to suppress most of my injurious behaviors. Especially when dealing with notoriously dangerous humanoids."

Gamora arches her right eyebrow, "To disturb my meditation? Now I know you have news."

"I do," Rocket confirms. "Although you've one helluva 'to do' list," he gripes. "The majority of which relies on undeterminable information….at least until the SRU delivers the goods."

"The SRU?"

"Spacecraft Recovery Unit," Rocket enunciates condescendingly, "But don't get your hopes up. The types of humies the Xandarians hire are class B junkers at best; slow as Groot's processing, and as uninspired as Drax. And wasting precious time means that the Milano was likely stripped of anything remotely interesting."

Gamora leans forward to brush the dust off her pant legs, her face a mixture of reflection and resignation.

"So why do you care?" Rocket leans his agile frame against the aircraft's massive wheels, his foot balancing on a wooden chock.

Gamora's patience wanes, "For the same reason you do."

"Please," Rocket scoffs, "the Guardians might be the closest thing me and Groot ever had for family….. but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let my feelings override my noggin. You realize Quill ain't ever gonna be the same."

"How do you mean?" Gamora glowers.

"With Ego out of the picture, Quill's nothing more than a Terran with some Ravager experience."

"Are you quantifying Quill as an asset?" Gamora doesn't bother disguising her disgust.

Rocket glares back, "Well if it helps you understand the scope of your break with reality…. then, yes! Speaking of quantifying, it's been hard for me to quantify how much of Quill's skill was enhanced by that sociopathic celestial. But please! Don't tell me that you haven't noticed a huge difference in Quill now that Ego is out of the picture."

"Quill is our friend!" Gamora fumes.

"Wait! You really don't see it? Quill's all humie now. Assets? He's a damned liability."

"Inconceivable, Rocket! Peter is recovering from an unimaginable trauma."

"Ha! That's just what I thought," Rocket shakes his head, "you believe by recovering a few trinkets, Quill will rediscover his groove, and poof, he's Star-Lord! Thanos' best and brightest?! Ha! It's clear your judgment is clouded by some unspoken thing."

"You will find those items," Gamora orders sans emotion, "but know this. Outside of Guardian business, you and I have nothing further to communicate."

"Suit yourself," Rocket shrugs, slipping off to find cooler digs, a last-minute slight hanging from his tongue, "Given that Quill's bodyguard is the 'most dangerous woman in the universe,' I guess he's got nothing to worry about. Personally, I'd rather die after castration."

* * *

Chapter Two: Manifest


	2. Chapter two: Manifest

_'Cause you don't look the same  
The way you did before  
OK you think you got a pretty face  
But the rest of you is out of place  
You looked all right before_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Fox On The Run_

* * *

Chapter Two: Manifest

 _Ground Zero, Xandar_

The subject of three suns, Xandar's mild climate is a pleasant contrast to the bone-chilling cold of space travel. Nova Corps' Denarian Dey explains that the ocean breeze is integral to regulating the warm seasonal cycles. In addition, pools and water features are thoughtfully incorporated into the city's landscape, such that, during the warmest of seasons, Xandarians are able to find relief on the highly developed island, a metropolis with limited real estate.

Why am I, Peter Quill, former thief and Ravager, being granted a personal tour of this now sacred ground? Aside from the celebrity associated with being a member of the Guardians of the Galaxy, it was my parasitic biological father who was responsible for planting his destructive seed at this very location. What pains me most, is knowing that Ego's megalomaniac desire for self-expansion was accomplished with my assistance, unwitting pawn, or no. As Ego's auxiliary power source, I helped devastate the meticulously planned capital city of Xandar – killing thousands of lives, destroying infrastructure, and creating a toxic wasteland and graveyard. The swatch of ruin is nearly as wide as it is long; a mountain of celestial ash whose environmental impact pollutes the air increases the temperature and has irreparably changed the topographical face of the formerly star-shaped island.

"Companion?" Drax's eyes narrow to mere slits, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I nod emphatically, forcefully flashing a smile for good measure.

"You look ill," Drax counters, "just like my daughter Kamaria before she would throw up all the contents of her stomach."

"Just the heat," I assure before a swift breeze violently swirls past, smacking me in the face and kicking up a cloud of fine particulate.

In a single Earth second, I am reminded of the epic battle with Ego, a battle where my signature Star-Lord helmet was shattered. Having access to that invaluable asset would have been enough to have saved Yondu Udonta. Dammit! A week later, and even the slightest recall of Yondu's death shakes me to the core; my legs buckle on the uneven mound of celestial soot. I nearly fall, but manage to correct my balance. I cover the awkward recovery by feigning a coughing fit, sputtering, "the dust isn't helping either."

If throwing up could offset my ensuing panic attack, I'd totally buy in. Since the inception of this tour, I've been playing off my crippling emotions as heat exhaustion. Unfortunately, the internal turmoil I feel upon viewing the scale of Ego's mass destruction is upsetting enough to make me reconsider all the food I consumed at the Xandarian brunch.

"Ego," I mutter, "what an incredible asshole," palming away the sweat streaking down both sides of my face.

Dey is quiet, his eyes downcast, "Peter, is it possible that you might have prevented this?"

"Quill battled with honor!" Drax intervenes, "But a mere mortal versus a Celestial? That Ego didn't devastate more of Xandar, Dey, that is surprising."

"I believe you," Dey sighs, "I don't mean to be ungrateful. Truly. I had to ask, because… well, as you can see, this is beyond overwhelming. It is so very difficult for me, and my fellow Xandarians, to process what happened. If my family hadn't been traveling to visit the in-laws… well, they would have been murdered like so many in our community."

Another gust of wind cuts through the oppressive heat, a welcome relief except that it, too, wafts a large cloud of particulate. We all shield our eyes, but the overpowering stimulus pulls me back to the center of Ego's planet: left alone, adrift in the inner core, the same powdery silt overpowering my senses as my aptly named bio-parent crumbles between my outstretched fingers.

"Companion!"

Drax's exclamation is drenched in sheer panic. But his warning is not enough to prevent the impending blackout.

* * *

I wake to the distinctive smell of antiseptic. Medical unit? Well, wherever I am, the noxious dust and oppressive heat are absent. I hear voices – one is familiar, Drax; the other is not.

"Will he be okay?"

"He should be. Were you with him when he passed out?"

"Yes, but I can't explain it. He looked unwell. However, when I asked him if he was okay. He said he was fine. Then not too long after, he just fell over."

"Well, Star-Lord is in good hands with the Nova Corps medical unit. On doctor's orders, we've administered fluids, electrolytes, and nutrients. And the monitor confirms that his temperature and heart rate are stable. Does he suffer from heat aversion?"

"I do not know," Drax pauses, "although I am surprised the Nova Corps does not have a working medical record on Quill, given his admittance to the Kyln. If I recall, when we last ventured to your planet, the Nova Corps medical facility ran a full scan of Quill."

"Yes. That information is available in our system. But given his hybrid status, and the significance of the Celestial paternal side, that sort of vulnerability seems unlikely," the Nova Corps medical technician pauses as more activity lights up on his touch screen, "One moment. It appears that you are receiving a communiqué from one of your Guardian compatriots."

"It is the green whore," Drax sighs heavily.

"Drax?" I croak unevenly, "can the Nova Corps patch it through my translator?"

"Companion!" Drax's face lights up, his ice blue eyes contrasting against his matte grey complexion. "What a relief that you are back with us. The tech is attempting to transfer a communiqué from Gamora."

A brief moment of static is supplanted by Gamora's distinctively collected voice.

"Peter?"

"Hey. Gamora?" I'm playing it real chill, "How's everything?"

"Peter, where are you?"

"With Drax."

"I know your location, Peter Quill! I tried to reach you on two separate occasions but your com-link and translator were both off-line. When Drax didn't pick up, I contacted Dey. He transferred me to the Nova Corps medical wing."

Part of me wants to sass back. The old Quill might have said something like, 'well if you know where I am, why did you ask?' But the loss of Yondu still stings something awful. 'Sometimes the thing you're searching for your whole life is right there by your side all along.' So Gamora's recent willingness to be vulnerable and let me into her life is far more important than the seconds worth of satisfaction I'd gain from 'getting her goat.' Living with the PTSD of losing someone I love, I never want to make the mistake of forgetting to appreciate that person as life has consistently proved itself to be both short and unpredictable.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Gamora. I didn't mean for you to find out this way. I mean, I wouldn't want to have learned about... look, the important thing is that I'm okay," I explain. "Better than that, really. And I promise I'll give you all the details once I'm officially cleared."

An awkward silence fills the space between, enough time for me to imagine her bewilderment. She's so damn tough on the outside, but over this past week, I've come to see a completely soft underbelly. There's no pleasure in hurting her…

"It must have been difficult to survey the damage," her tone softens considerably, "do you want me to come?"

"Drax is here," I remind gently, "and I'm planning on getting out of here as soon as possible, okay?"

There is something about the way she replies, "okay." A hesitation, an undetectable sigh.

"Be well, Peter. When you return to the hangar, Rocket has an update on the status of the Milano. Minimally, an enumerated manifest."

I pause, my thoughts redirected. My heart fills with hope, "If Rocket is able to find any of the important items... you'll let me know, first thing?"

"Of course. Be well, Peter Quill. Gamora out."

"She was upset?" Drax queries.

I nod in affirmation, "more worried than angry."

"I was wrong about the two of you," Drax's large frame rests against a structural beam set between my outpatient gurney and the adjacent examination stall.

"Oh yeah?" I arch my right eyebrow, interested, but feeling progressively more fatigued by today's adventure.

"There is something between you," Drax poses, "something that is far more complex than dancing. My culture speaks of a special 'warrior's bond.' This powerful bond consists of only two people, primarily between men; a pairing with an unbreakable bond, shared life experiences, with equitable respect for one another."

"That sounds like a solid friendship, Drax."

"It is, but it is more," Drax considers, "for instance, their lives revolve around one another like there is a kind of force between them, uh, as a satellite moon revolves around a planet."

"Our Terran term is 'karmic.' But what does this 'warrior's bond' mean for Gamora and me? I mean, not to be narrow-minded, but aren't warriors usually, you know, two guys?"

"Well, to be honest, a male/female pairing is rare, but not unheard of. What does it mean? If such a coupling were to come to pass, their bond is so strong, it cannot be invaded - not even by children that are created by this coupling. The other interesting fact is that warriors often die within a week of one another."

"That doesn't necessarily sound like a good thing," I cringe, "I prefer the simplicity of our 'unspoken thing.'"

"Perhaps," Drax reflects, "But you and Gamora meet much of the criteria. And in many aspects, Gamora is very much like a man. And although Gamora is not a dancer. You are both orphans. Orphans who have survived monstrous male parental figures."

"I've thought of that," I muse, "I mean, I don't know about the 'man' thing. But Gamora and I do have a lot of shared experiences, uh, common ground between us. Although, in her situation, her monstrous male parent is still out there – and unlike my scenario, her megalomaniac male figure isn't her biological parent."

"Well the comparison is not perfect," Drax concedes, "but I do feel that there is something unique between you and the green whore. Mantis mentioned this too."

My interest is piqued, but my endurance is fading fast.

"Tell me companion," Drax shifts his weight from his left to his right foot, "given her sexual exploits, Gamora must be a very satisfying lover."

"Oh, I don't think she'd appreciate this conversation," I laugh apprehensively, "but I can confirm that she's far better than the Aaskvarian."

Drax laughs heartily at my attempt to evade his query, "your Terran hang-ups are truly are remarkable. How do Terrans make children together if sexual relations are taboo?"

"We manage," I yawn, the fatigue growing stronger with each passing moment, "any news from Mantis?"

"Yes." Drax smiles warmly, "she sends lengthy messages. And I am very happy for her. She is gaining much from her first visit to her homeland."

"You must miss her a lot." I offer, fighting like hell to keep my eyelids open.

"I do. She is like a sister to me. That is if I were to have a much younger, ugly sibling. But yes, I have come to derive great joy from hearing of her daily adventures – experiences she might have had, had she not been selfishly kept as a pet."

I nod, closing my eyes.

"Companion, you should rest."

I attempt to nod again. Except for an annoying beeping sound in the background, I'm about to fall into a deep sleep. I sense a rush of footsteps, Drax's voice? The incessant beeping is getting louder, growing incrementally longer with less space in between until suddenly the noise crescendos into one solid high pitched tone - a sound that seems eerily familiar. Finally, as it happened earlier in the day, all of my senses fade to black.

* * *

Chapter Three: Bandito


	3. Chapter three: Bandito

_Concrete mountains rearing up_  
 _Throwing shadows right about five_  
 _Sometimes you can smell the green_  
 _if your mind is feeling fine_

\- Lyrics from _Lake Shore Drive_

* * *

Chapter Three: Bandito

24-Earth hours later...

 _Nova Corps Spacecraft Hangar 27-S, The Milano's recovered hull, Main deck_

"No!" Drax's pale blue eyes widen before he folds into a fit of giggles, "I would never joke about such a thing. Quill nearly back-flighted while we were surveying the damage on Xandar, and that is a very bad thing! The result of back-flighting is immediate death. But our Quill is spirited. He rallied and has cheated death yet again!"

"Flat-lined," I correct Drax, curiously watching as he interacts with Mantis via the newly installed com-link.

"Poor, Peter. It is master's fault," Mantis cringes.

"How do you mean?" Gamora approaches the screen wearily. "We incapacitated Ego. Are you suggesting that the seed's detritus affects Peter?

Mantis unconsciously takes a step backward, her fear of Gamora palpable, "Y-yes. The seeds are extensions of Ego. Any matter that was created by Ego, carries Ego's aura."

I feel the weight of Gamora's gaze before she pulls me aside, her voice low but clear, "Peter, if Mantis is correct, we need to get you off of Xandar as soon as possible."

"That's not possible. The Milano won't be fully functional for at least a Xandarian week," I protest lightly, "And what are we to do after she's rebuilt? Thanks to Ego's insatiable appetite, the list of affected planets is staggering. I mean, with all the Kryptonite floating through space, how am I going to continue exploring the Galaxy with you?"

"Kryptonite?" Gamora puzzles.

"Kryptonite? Oh, ummm...it's a great analogy really, it derives from a popular Terran legend. It starts out with an orphaned alien child, a child who when he grows up, becomes the most powerful superhero in the galaxy."

Gamora's eyes widen, her head tilts to the side, "tell me," she demands.

Dude! It is so unbelievably cool that Gamora continues to adore my obscure Terran references. And as our bond grows stronger, I've been trying to figure out why she enjoys them so much. I'm not a bad storyteller per se, but there seems to be much more to it than that. Personally, I think stories bring her back to a happy childhood memory, i.e., to a time in her life before everything was turned upside down. Of course, I could ask Gamora, but I'm hesitant to delve into anything that might provoke a painful memory. So in my head, I imagine a little-version of Gamora, curled up on her parent's lap reading stories with them before bed. Perhaps I'm projecting too much, but it's easy to do that when I see her face light up mid-story. Yep. She looks like a little kid, eager to start the next chapter, ready to fall in love with the protagonist.

Drax thinks that Gamora and I share a Warrior's bond. And although I can't be certain Gamora and I meet all of Drax's criteria, one of the conditions, shared life experiences, seems on point. For one, Gamora and I were roughly the same age when our childhoods were stolen from us: my abduction into Yondu's care, and Gamora's enslavement to Thanos. In addition to her capture, Gamora was brutally subjected to the murder of her parents, and the destruction of her people and culture. Either way, because the traumatic events occurred before either of us were pre-teens, I firmly believe that there are aspects of us that remain very child-like.

To play on my theory, I inject as much life into the story as possible. My hands punctuate actions, simply because Gamora appears to appreciate the added flair, "The orphan is an alien with superhuman powers. His alien life pod crashes on Terra when his home planet is blown to pieces."

"Did someone just say blown to pieces?" Rocket interjects. I feel Rocket brush past my left leg before strategically placing himself between Gamora and myself.

Gamora's expression darkens.

"The goods, green princess?" Rocket winks repeatedly, "I've worked more than three-quarters down the list. Sent you a request at the end of my shift, but no response."

"I read your request," Gamora bristles, "but considering your lack of results, and discretion... your wages should be docked."

"Hold it right there, sister!" Rocket's face is the closest definition to incredulous I've ever seen on a non-humanoid, "It sounds like you're suggesting that I work for free. Where I come from, that's stealing!"

"If you continue to speak of our business agreement in front of a non-business associate," Gamora growls back, "then getting your fair share should be the least of your worries."

"I don't work for free!" Rocket snarls, enunciating each word. "And by now you should know that threats mean absolutely nothing to me. I've spent all day combing the remains of this piece of junk."

"Hey, man!" I barge in, "What did you call my ship? Dude! What's going on between you and Gamora?"

"This is between Rocket and me, Peter. It's unfortunate that you've been subjected to..."

"Ohhhhhh," Rocket sassily interrupts, "the two lovebirds! It's so inspirational and disgusting at the same time. Me? There are many reasons I've not taken on a leadership role. For one, I lack morals! But should I ever have to take the helm, I can identify one major difference between us, Star-Child. I know better than to defecate in my own bed."

"Really?" I laugh, "this coming from a guy who threatened to put a turd in my pillow if I didn't relinquish control of my ship? C'mon Rocket! A close duo isn't what's going to be responsible for breaking apart our team! Universe! If a tight partnership muddies the water, wouldn't you and Groot hold that particular title?"

"I am Groot?"

"Hey! What are you eating! Where did you find those?" Rocket swoops in on Groot. Since the incident on Ego's planet, Yondu's adorable twig has experienced another growth spurt and is nearly the same height as his raccoon compadre. Considering Groot is eating anything he can wrap his branches around, the noticeable increase in his size and mass make perfect sense.

"I am Groot!"

"No, they are not! Where did you find those? Celestials! They are molding!" Rocket leaps forward and starts wrestling what appears to be a handful of candy out of Groot's dexterous limbs shouting, "Disgusting! Disgusting! Put all of them down!"

Something clicks in my brain, as I distinctly recall Groot eating a container of candy while trying to escape the Sovereign, round one. "Hang on, Rocket. Groot? Where did you get those?" Logic dictates that Groot's candy wouldn't have survived the tow from Berhert. Nor the time spent on a planet filled with exotic fauna and flora.

Gamora crouches down, eye-level with Groot, "Hi little one," she smiles, "come here." Gamora leans forward and holds out four small pieces of dried fruit she purchased at a local Xandarian market, "you can have these, and a few more pieces, if you show us where you found the candy."

"Really?" Rocket shakes his head in irritation, "you're bribing a toddler?"

"I am Groot!" Groot's hand stretches to meet Gamora's before pulling her towards an area below the flight deck. Rocket and I trail behind, leaving Drax to finalize his time with Mantis. Upon arriving at the lower deck, Groot directs his captive audience to the left of the stairwell, towards the trash compactor.

"Why you little hoarder," Rocket mutters, hands resting on hips, "I can't believe it. Clever? Yes. But highly unsanitary."

"I am Groot."

"What?" I look to Rocket for clarification.

"I thought he might be stashing things behind the compactor. On several occasions, I caught him snooping back there." Rocket smacks his lips in disdain.

"I am Groot!"

"You've never known a day of hunger in your life." Rocket shakes his head, "I've always given you everything you wanted."

I raise an eyebrow and turn to Gamora, "Drax inferred as much when we left Berhert, that's why he insisted on carrying all his goods. He said he didn't want Groot going through his stuff."

"Go on now!" Rocket directs, although he's addressing Groot, Rocket is clearly glaring at Gamora, "This is our family. We don't take from family."

Groot nods and leads Gamora to the compactor. With Groot's permission, Gamora pulls the unit forward. She then lifts the container out of the tracks and sets it aside. I toss Gamora a flashlight, and in under five Earth seconds, Gamora gasps, "Peter!"

In the small space between the wall of the outer panel and the metal frame that holds the compactor in place, Groot has stashed a myriad of treasures - from food to bedding. Gamora is holding a small container, the size of a cardboard shoebox.

"Can you show Peter?" Gamora gently nudges Groot.

"I am Groot," The small tree agrees.

Groot's finger-like projections grow towards me, a container in hand. When I look inside, my heart swells. Each item is as sacred as the next: a light blue ribbon, a square of folded wrapping paper, a white cardboard box selected by my mom to house the 'Awesome Mix Vol. 2 Mix Tape,' a folded piece of paper that contains mom's letter, and finally, mom's first mixtape, Awesome Mix Tape Vol. 1.

"Thank you, Groot," I manage to choke out. What can I say? I'm Earth-seconds from being overcome by emotions. Dude! I honestly never thought I'd recover any of my mom's things. When Ego crushed my walkman, destroying my mother's audio tape in the process, I - I - I've still no fucking words. I've never been violated in such manner. And I was so vulnerable, in such physical pain, and Ego was supposed to be my father. Dammit, even now I am having a hard time thinking about it.

Gamora lifts Groot and holds him close; her face awash in joy, "you've brought Peter happiness!"

Groot smiles broadly, basking in her gentle affections.

Rocket quietly pulls me aside, "Quill. I'm glad you got your goods back."

"Thanks. This uh..., this really means the world to me."

"So you're back on track?"

"Back on track?"

"You know, now that you've got all your gadgets and mementos back: from the antiquated Terran music to the Milano ... is it enough to ensure you're back in the game?"

"Perhaps you're being too subtle." I offer, somewhat irritated by this line of questioning, "What game are you referring to?"

"Look, Quill, I know I'm an a-hole, so I'll cut to the chase. Are you mentally and physically up to leading the Guardians?"

"Hang on," I'm stunned, "Are you suggesting that I'm not mentally and physically capable. Ah, yes…..now that I've no more Celestial powers, my value to this team just plummeted. Universe, Rocket! Do you realize that I never even knew I had abilities until I ran into my psychotic old man."

"Just because you didn't know about them, doesn't mean they didn't enhance your abilities. Me? I need to know you are fit in both departments."

"So how about this scenario? If your modifications were disabled, would that justify cutting you from the Guardians?"

"Why not?" Rocket shrugs his shoulders, "I mean, why'd you tow around some stupid raccoon?"

"Because I care, dammit! And I hope you understand that you are so much more than the sum of your modifications," I fume, "Celestials, Rocket! I'm not some invalid!"

"Hmm, I don't know," Rocket strokes the white fur under his jawline, "didn't Drax just drag your unconscious ass to a medical facility and back for passing out because it was hot outside?"

What prevents me from engaging in a fistfight with Rocket is Gamora's dark expression. Her outrage is punctuated by her body language – hands on hips, muscles tense as a spring-board, eyes shooting daggers, her dark green lips pursed into a straight thin line. She's remained quiet on the sidelines purely out of professional courtesy. Her actions are correct. This is my battle, but even so, I don't have it in me to fight.

An awkward silence unnerves all. Gamora's face twitches as she uses every ounce of self-control to refrain from interfering.

"That's what I thought," Rocket concludes, crossing both of his arms, "there's no fight in you, Quill. You've changed on many levels. But you," Rocket nods his head in Gamora's direction, "haven't changed. Therefore, you've both confirmed my suspicions in regard to how this team is going to be playing their cards."

Silver flashes in front of my eyes as Gamora's sword cuts through the air, abruptly stopping centimeters from Rocket's neckline.

Rocket doesn't flinch, but his tail suddenly appears twice as thick, "Exactly," he announces plainly, "Bodyguard thug, and her frail Terran."

"You'd best be out of my sight before I change my mind," Gamora seethes.

Without warning, Drax slides down the stairwell railings, unknowingly entering a toxic battleground, "Hey, guys. What did I miss?"

Rocket chuckles maniacally; a hearty fake belly laugh fracturing the raw silence, "Nothing you haven't seen before. Do you think this Star-munch can still lead? Be honest, Drax. Coz' I'm getting sick and tired of being the only realist in this family. Wake up, folks! We just buried a Guardian!"

Gamora's eyes probe mine. It's hard to say whether she's transmitting comfort, or looking for it in return. But it's too late for solace. The damage inflicted by Rocket's words may be permanent.

* * *

Chapter Four: Refrain


	4. Chapter four: Refrain

_Listen to the wind blow,  
down comes the night  
Running in the shadows  
damn your love, damn your lies  
Break the silence  
damn the dark, damn the light_

 _-_ Lyrics from _The Chain_

* * *

Chapter Four: Refrain

 _Tri-Suns Hotel, Suite 1107, Xandar_

"What the _hell_ is going on with Rocket?" I'm so damned furious; I'm nearly panting.

Gamora stays remarkably stoic throughout my tirade. The chair she's settled into is adjacent to a built-in monitor and com-link, and faces the King sized bed I've nearly worn a path around. The dark magenta tips of her hair obscure her expression. Sans visual cue, I'm guessing she's equally irritated. I mean, earlier in the day, she nearly sliced off Rocket's head. But overall, this new persona of Gamora is a lot harder to decipher. Since Yondu's wake, it's as if she's been walking on eggshells around me, a presumption that adds to my overall frustration.

"It is likely that this is Rocket's way of dealing with the loss of Yondu…" Gamora's voice fades into the carpet, her hands rest heavily upon the hilt of her sword.

"Selfish bastard. Dick. Trash panda from hell!" I throw my hands up in the air, as if enumerating every insulting Rocket nickname will make me feel better, "I'm tired of him constantly vying for the spotlight. If he thinks leading this team is easy, or that he'd be the better chief...well hell, he can have it."

Gamora remains pensive, quietly digesting the afternoon's events. For a moment I spy her gazing longingly at the recovered box of objects Groot stashed behind the Milano's trash compactor. It's only when she notices me watching her that her eyes return to her sword, her fingers follow the lines of the hilt's contours.

"You're quiet tonight," I stop mid-stride, less than a foot away from her temporary perch, "do you think what Rocket said is true?"

"About us?" Gamora's fingers continue to trace the shape of her deadly weapon, "or your abilities?"

"Both," I kneel down next to her, slumping at her feet. I crave her touch, imagining that she might have the power to pardon me from Rocket's damming accusations. Gamora's expression softens, the corners of her mouth might indicate compassion or resignation. It's hard to say. She motions me closer and I accordion forward from the waist. She takes the weight of my arms, cradles my tired head after setting her sword to rest against the base of the com-link.

"I have no answers," she muses, "there is not enough time to know for sure."

I nod shallowly in her lap. She doesn't seem to mind the angles of my jawline pressing into the curve of her thigh. I close my eyes and still when Gamora's fingertips draw gentle patterns through my hair. I draw in breath – her calming scent anesthetizes the mounting anxiety and anger.

Her scent takes me back to Yondu's wake. For it is Gamora that waits up with me until the last of the _Ravager_ ships jumps into hyperdrive, small pinpoints of light in an endless horizon. Exhausted, but running on pure adrenaline, I am compelled to watch every last firework display and tribute. Indeed, Since Yondu's emotional wake and burial, and after admitting to our 'unsaid thing,' Gamora has yet to leave my side. Well, with the one exception, my choice to take the disheartening tour of the _Xandarian_ disaster zone.

 _Earth-minutes after the last of the Ravager's ship disappears from view, Gamora steadies me to bed, pulls off my boots, and wraps a comforter around my zombie-self. She stations herself on a chair next to my bed – well, until I physically pull her in beside me._

 _"_ _You can't sleep in a chair," I reason._

 _"_ _I am fine, Peter Quill."_

 _"_ _Agreed. Now don't be stubborn." Expecting a level of resistance, I use my 6'3" frame to leverage her from chair to bed. "I have a pretty good idea of how you feel about me, because I feel that way about you, too. And I'm too fucked up right now to do anything stupid. But please," I sigh, "please don't fight me about this, okay?"_

 _And this time she doesn't reject my physical advance. And on some level, I guess I knew she wouldn't – for the same reason she wouldn't strike a wounded animal, torment an unarmed opponent, or shoot someone in the back. In the end, I know that it is not important for me to know why she peacefully relents... for either way, I need her to be close to me for the duration of the night. And no matter what transpires, I'm certain that I'll be able to sort the rest of it out later._

 _In those first spine-tingling moments, I remember being surprised by her frame, for it seems remarkably light against mine. I'd always imagined Gamora larger than life; tougher than nails. But getting up this close and personal, there is something about her, so sensationally feminine, gentle and generous in her affections. Her former staunch desire to suppress openness and vulnerability, suddenly a non-issue. I remember delighting in the details, for example, the smoothness of her skin sharply contrasting against the intricate geometric patterns around her temple. I recall gathering her against my frame, breathing in the lovely scent of her skin. And of the most delightful sensation created by a series of small puffs of her warm breathe against my collarbone, the result of a few small victories when my fingertips both discover and distract._

A deep shiver runs through her, and immediately snaps me back into the present. Irrationally, I wonder if she can read my thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

"Mantis," she whispers, "Mantis said that 'anything that is of Ego' can affect you."

"Well, I don't know," I offer skeptically, "She can't know for sure. For all I know, it might have been the heat that pushed me over the edge. Combine that with my emotional state, you know, seeing the damage – it was overpowering."

"I want to believe that," Gamora swallows uncomfortably, "I – I just don't know how to read her. It is very disturbing, Peter."

"She upsets you," I pause, trying to gauge whether it's safe to push for more, "Was it something she said? What happened between you two?"

"I – I don't know. But even though Mantis tried to help us, I can't overlook the fact that she was duplicitous, hiding key information. Then when Ego took you from us….." Gamora stops abruptly.

"What?" I inquire gently, straightening my shoulders and shifting my legs to prevent them from falling asleep.

"When I said his name, you flinched."

This time, a shiver runs through me. "Gamora," I stand up shakily, holding out my hand, "It's nothing. Just fatigue. Come on. Come to bed."

"Peter, you can't run from this," Gamora takes hold of my hand, a firm grip, "You never told me what happened between you and Ego."

Dammit. This is not where I wanted to go tonight. Talk about a buzz killer. It's not that I don't want to tell her, but rather, I don't know if I can. The mental wounds are still too raw, and I don't think I can handle feeling those feelings. Not to mention, they'll kill any ounce of sexual desire, any romantic feelings that are currently swirling within my core.

"I don't know," I sigh, pulling off my shirt, "I want to,... but right now the only thing it's going to accomplish is seriously messing up my head."

"If you are not ready, then that is how it is to be. I respect your wishes."

"Coming?"

She nods, zipping off her top layer, "It's just that...," I hear Gamora murmur, "there is this thing. Something that happened that is very important. I need to figure it out."

"You don't want to?"

"Oh no, Peter. I do. It's just that when you were with him, something happened. It was right around the time Mantis was going to tell Drax everything, and that's when it happened."

I set my clothes in the hotel hamper, and hang my belt over the nearest chair backing, "Drax mentioned that there was an interaction with Mantis…."

Gamora slides onto the bed, her face unreadable in the low light, "Peter?"

I lift my side of the covers and slide in beside her, "What is it?"

"I thought that it would subside, but then you reminded me when you said 'with all the ' _Kryptonite_ floating around,'" she shudders, "I-I haven't been able to shake it."

"Shake what?" I pull her down towards me.

"Since she touched me," Gamora swallows shakily and holds onto both of my arms as if I'm a life-jacket, "She emoted, she touched me and said, 'you feel fear.' And I did. I _still_ do. I-I can't shake it."

I lean over and kiss the top of Gamora's head, "Hmmmm," I mumble before enclosing her tightly in my arms, as if I can somehow squeeze the anxiety away. I place another kiss on her temple, "I'm here. Ego's gone. We will work through it."

She inches closer, her breath falling between my neck and collarbone.

"Tell me about the fear you are feeling," I place a kiss on her opposite temple, "Is it an overall sense of doom? You know, a general fear, or a specific fear?"

"It's very specific," Gamora bites at her lower lip, "It's not rational, Peter! Ego's gone. So why hasn't the fear lifted?"

"He can't hurt us anymore," I run my hand over her temple, brushing her hair back so I can look directly into her beautiful dark eyes.

"Which means he can't protect you either," she whispers hoarsely.

And for the next half-hour or so, I focus all of my energy on dispelling Gamora's newfound apprehension. Endorphins release and soothe, but after several Earth hours pass, I find that I'm wide awake, chewing on the content of our earlier conversation. And after some serious reflection, it's Gamora's initial perspective that takes the cake, '...there is not enough time to know for sure.'

* * *

Chapter Five: Downgrade


	5. Chapter five: Downgrade

_Take a run and hide yourself away_ _  
_ _Fox on the run  
_ _And hide away_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Fox on the Run_

* * *

Chapter Five: Downgrade

 _Two weeks later, aboard the newly rebuilt Milano, en route to 3S-X-Mining Colony VIII_

"You're being _unbelievably_ idiotic!" My fingers repeatedly tap the auxiliary control to no avail, "C'mon dude! Release the controls, dammit!" The inability to manually transfer primary piloting privileges back to my station, _on my ship_ , is beyond infuriating.

Rocket bursts into a fit of laughter, "Nice try, humie! But considering what happened after your last stunt pre- _Berhert_ , I made the executive decision to deactivate your override privileges. My right as captain, Star-fish." I watch in frustration as Rocket slams the throttle forward, using his nasty little Raccoon foot, no less, "Awww, boo-hoo, so sad! Now sit back and watch a _real_ professional in action."

"I am Groot!" the half-sized tree throws his arms upwards in a fit of euphoria, his grin the girth of a slice of watermelon. My irritation mounts as multiple shoots sprout up like celebratory fireworks.

"That's right, I _am_ the man," Rocket chuckles before driving the _Milano_ into a full barrel roll.

Appalled, I crane my neck to look to Gamora for support, but she's far too intent on calculating the next safest jump point. And Drax? Hell, Drax is either oblivious or desensitized to Rocket's callous slight. Per usual, he's thoroughly enjoying the rough and tumble space ride, sans safety restraint no less, giggling like a toddler as the _Milano_ jerks violently from side to side.

"Careful!" I spit out harshly, Earth-seconds after Rocket narrowly misses hitting a block of unidentifiable metal space trash that is directly in our line of trajectory, "This is still _my ship_ , Rocket! Treat her with respect!"

But it's easy to discern that my words hold little weight with the Guardian's new lead. Hell, I might as well be mute. A sense of helplessness begins to eat away at me. "They're gaining on us, dammit. Four coming in fast, Rocket! Portside! Wait? What are you doing?"

"Oh, never you mind, Quill. It's a classic trick I've used a million times." A toothy smile breaks along Rocket's furry jawline.

"But you can't do that on an M-class!" My eyes wide like saucers, "You'll short her in a heartbeat, Dude! Listen to me! Rocket!"

I feel numb, and then an intense pressure from all sides, like someone's physically pinning me to the ground.

* * *

When I come to, the auxiliary lights are on, but very little sign of any activity - organic or otherwise. No familiar humming of engines, no indication of electrical power. As my eyes adjust to the low light, and the overwhelming sensation of paralysis fades, I muscle out of the safety harness and move to Rocket's command station. Carefully working around Rocket's unconscious body, I reach under the console to see if there is a chance I can power up the _Milano_ manually.

"Peter," Gamora mumbles in a haze of equal parts disorientation and physical pain, "before Rocket's maneuver, one of the enemy vessels was attempting to hail us," she winces, and gingerly wipes some blood from her temple, "but now I can't get anything, com-link or otherwise, to respond."

I nod, trying not to fixate on the fact that she's bleeding profusely from her head. I work furiously to reset the wires, capping the safety before trying to re-engage the ignition.

"Not gonna work. Gotta reset the main." I book towards the stairwell, past Gamora and a large mass on the floor that I assume is an unconscious Drax. I nearly choke over the putrid stench of burnt flesh, likely the result of an electrical burn.

Flying down the ladder, I force myself to stay on task. I do all I can to drown out the vile image of my fellow Guardians lying unconscious near their consoles, and the extra frightening visual of a seeping wound emanating from Gamora's hairline. But if I'm to be any help to my loyal crew, I can't worry about that level of minutiae. I know that if I don't act fast, we're about to get fried, captured, or both.

On the first level, a host of tools and various ship parts litter the floor near the main engine core. Part of me is enraged that Rocket didn't clean up this unsightly mess before we started our first leg of our journey, the other part remembers that I'm not so tidy myself. After carefully avoiding several land-mines, I pull the handle to open the hatch.

"Shit!" I howl, singeing my fingertips upon contact. Picking up a lone breaker bar from Rocket's messy mélange, I leverage the compartment open. I'm unceremoniously welcomed by blast of hot, thick, black smoke. Shielding my eyes with the back of my left arm, I kick the hatch closed, chocking on a toxic mouthful of carbon waste. Dude, we are not going to get out of this unscathed!

Damn, raccoon! It didn't have to be like this. I should never have humored him, never negotiated with him. _Universe_ knows I was simply trying to be the bigger man. You know, demonstrate how much I care about, trust and respect Rocket as a fellow Guardian. Clearly this approach backfired, because not only did Rocket gain the proverbial 'captain's chair,' but as a result, the Guardians are but moments away from witnessing the _Milano's_ third tango with total incapacitation.

I hear moaning and movement from the cockpit moments before the _Milano_ lurches violently to the right, her metal supports shudder severely under the pressure of a much larger force. Peeling myself off the floor, I identify the sound of a laser cutter slicing through the _Milano's_ hull. _Celestials!_ It sure seems likely that we're about to be boarded. I guess some a-hole really wants a piece of us.

Quad blasters in hand, I take cover behind the nearest bulkhead. It's from this vantage that I'll have the best view of a potential group of infiltrators. My heart races in my chest, my senses on high alert. This is the proverbial 'calm before the storm,' and I'm preparing for a fight. In the interim, I go through a mental checklist of sorts, i.e., the status and location of each Guardian: Rocket is still strapped into the main pilot's chair, knocked unconscious; Gamora must have hit her head against the console, but was conscious and she may be tending to the other Guardians; Drax was last seen unconscious on the command deck floor, his injuries may be more severe than the rest of his fellow Guardians; Groot? Damn. I don't remember seeing Groot. I wonder if he's our saving grace? My mind continues to race as it tries to process all the data available from our stay on Xandar. Of our journey henceforth, I can safely derive that: 1) The Guardians left the Nova Corps space doc at the start of the daybreak shift, 2) During the last Nova Corps day rotation, there was no transmission received with the exception of Mantis via com-link 3) Only a handful of Nova Corps, including Denarian Dey were aware of our temporary stay - and of our recent departure, and to my knowledge, Dey is the only Xandarian that knows the coordinates of our current destination. 4) Top list of potential threats are currently: A) The Sovereign, B) Thanos, C) fanatic Kree loyalists, D) Bounty hunters working for all of the above.

Sparks from the laser cutter snap me from my checklist reverie. The Milano's angry red scar tissue transforms from molten red to burnt charcoal. The resulting path is nearly full circle. Any moment now…..

 _Zzzzziiinnnnnnnng!_ Electricity dances through the air, so that every hair on my body stands erect. Thanks to the rubber on the soles of my boots, I'm spared the full impact of the shock wave that spirals through the ship.

I'm rewarded by the sound of maniacal laughter echoing from the cockpit. Hell, I'd recognize Rocket's cadence in my sleep. I'm thrilled and irritated all in the same breath. Sigh. Perhaps my current demotion will be permanent.

* * *

Chapter 6: TBD


	6. Chapter six: Suspension

_Southern nights_ _  
_ _They feel so good it's fright'ning  
_ _Wish I could  
_ _Stop this world from fighting_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Southern Nights_

* * *

Chapter Six: Suspension

 _En route to 3S-X-Colony VIII, orbiting Planet_ _Náret_

Although the _Milano's_ main engines remain offline, she's currently orbiting a rogue planet that's not too far off track from our original destination, _3S-X-Colony VIII_. Her temporary trajectory provides just enough cover and movement for the time being, and is certainly preferable to any non-action, i.e., remaining idle amidst several broken down enemy spacecraft, the proximity of which would likely draw the least trustworthy characters the universe has to offer. Propelling her into _Náret's_ orbit proved challenging, but given our long list of haters, the creative solution was both necessary and sound.

Should I be surprised that our first foray back into adventure has potentially aggravated an unsettled conflict with Rocket? _Universe_ knows that I'm still trying to wrap my head around the source of the issue. I mean, I thought we'd moved past the cutting verbal assaults that both of us incited after crash landing on _Berhert_. But something's definitely off track.

"You help Rocket, okay?" I unearth a handful of nutritional bars from a sealed container near our makeshift medical bay, before offering them to Groot.

"I am Groot?" Groot's golden hued eyes are still disarmingly disproportionate to his noggin. I follow his gaze to that of my empty hand, which strangely isn't the one that is holding out the stack of nutritional bars.

"If you're asking if it hurts, well then, yeah. I burned my fingers on the engine room door when I was trying to get the power back up on the main." I explain ruefully, wincing after I gingerly touch my thumb and middle finger briefly to gauge any improvement. I can't help but wonder how different my experience would be if my celestial protections were still intact, but I'm quickly distracted and equally bemused as Groot mimes my actions - a bizarre ritual that seems to be part and parcel of some new growing phase. I watch as his thumb and middle finger come together at a single point. "I am Groot," he winces convincingly at the moment his two branched fingers touch.

"Yup, exactly like that," I nod before shaking the bars enticingly enough to re-engage Groot's attention, "Take what you need, but make sure you save a few for Rocket to eat too. I believe he likes the _zahnaa root_ ones the best."

"I am Groot." Groot's eyes uncannily remind me of twin 'tiger eye' stones. I wish I could understand what he is saying - sometimes I feel like I can, which is weird since my in-built translator has never been able to convert Groot's unconventional manner of communication. Earth-seconds after enthusiastically accepting the stash of bars, Groot books off towards the main, a dance in his step and an armful of nutritional bars held tightly across his chest.

With my small peace offering underway, I return to the _Milano's_ makeshift medical bay. But as soon as my foot crosses the transom, it becomes clear that I've walked into a minor squabble between the Guardians most proficient warriors. The angst in Gamora's body language is matched only by her grating tone, "He is being a miserable patient, Peter! Nearly as difficult as you."

"It is not I, companion," Drax counters, "This unholy green demon, with which you have lain, is being unreasonable. A warrior? Yes. A medic? No."

"C'mon man," my hands raise in exasperation, "Unreasonable? Look, Drax, you're in this mess because you continually choose to ride without a harness. Don't you think it's time to work on a permanent solution?"

"The equipment on this ship is not built for a warrior of my stature!" Drax irritates, "Nor the little tree. The tree was not belted in either."

"Point taken," I offer, "but the tree is not fully grown, nor truly humanoid. I mean, you've got to concede that Groot heals at an insane rate. But you, on the other hand... last time I saw you, you were slumped over on the cockpit floor smoking like Darth Vader right after the emperor fried his ass."

"Darth Vader?" Drax raises an eyebrow, bewildered by my random Terran cinematic reference.

"And you, Gamora?" _Celestials!_ She looks about sixty percent. Her skin color is far paler than her normally healthy olive medium hue.

"I am fine." Gamora offers sans emotion, "And Drax will remain stable, _if_ he'll stick to my prescribed protocol."

"Drax?"

"I am not a child, Quill." Drax glowers, "A warrior is open to the advice of others, especially if the advice he receives is in a field of study with which the warrior is not overly familiar."

"Well said, warrior," I smile warmly, "may I have a word with Gamora?"

"Yes." Drax offers emphatically, "I would be pleased if you remove her from this room."

"That's not necessary," I explain, motioning Gamora to the doorway, relieved that I finally have time to quietly connect with her. Gently angling her head towards the overhead light, I inspect the ugly gash just below her hairline, "Are you okay?"

She nods, relaxing into me as I draw closer.

"What's wrong?"

"Peter, all the idiotic posturing has to stop."

Her soft brown eyes slowly search mine. A shiver ripples through me, starting between my shoulder blades.

"I thought that maybe after," I pause, "Maybe after what went down on Ego's planet, uh, and then with Yondu, that all the bickering with Rocket would level off. But for some reason, things between us seem to be getting worse. I guess I haven't really had time to work out why our epic blow out on _Berhert_ happened in the first place."

"It does seem to be getting worse. But if anyone is going to put a stop to it, I think it's going to have to be you."

I nod in full agreement. "Any advice?"

Gamora expression is somewhat bemused, "just speak from your heart."

I sigh, "I feel like I've already tried that approach. It's almost like he doesn't respect me anymore. But then, I don't know, I wasn't trying to appease him or anything like that, uh, when I let him take lead pilot. I just wanted to show him how much I value his abilities, and, you know, that I trust him."

"Did you tell him that?"

"No. But, I'm not sure if Rocket responds well to that kind of intimate rapport.

"Hmmmm. Perhaps. From my past experience dealing with his type," Gamora pauses, "more often than not, every experienced emotion manifests as anger."

"Ha!" Drax laughs, "you speak from experience!"

"Protocol is rest and quiet," Gamora growls.

But I'm smiling inside. I feel an ounce of hope in my gut, like somehow this will all blow over and Rocket and I can get back on the same page. I mean, this _is_ my family. I know it's cheesy as hell, but I truly love each and every quirk – every facet of my Guardian crew.

* * *

"Rocket?"

"Can you hand me that socket-wrench?" Rocket loops his hand in a wide circle, awaking a sense of urgency, but also cleverly dictating the pace and direction of our conversation.

I look around the floor, it's like a bomb exploded near my feet –- as if I'm wading through an intergalactic junker's paradise.

"Time is of the essence, Quill," Rocket provokes, "now that you don't have Bio-daddy's blood, do your humie eyeballs still work?"

After locating the wrench, I squelch the desire to trash talk back, "Look, Rocket. I think we need to talk."

"Oh yeah?" Rocket grunts, "Well if you were to ask _me_ , Quill. I'd say 'fixing the _Milano's_ major issues promptly, so we can stop orbiting around this useless rock, is the first priority.'"

"I agree with you," I counter, "but before we move forward as a team, I need to know that we're all good."

"I see you sealed the outer breach with the replicator," Rocket cleverly redirects the conversation, his small dexterous hands never leave his assigned task.

"Yes. Not too long after you electrocuted our 'would-be captors.'"

"That was pure genius, right?" Rocket rocks back on his haunches, a giggle deep in his belly threatens to erupt.

"You're one of a kind, Rocket," I concede, "So, how long do you think it will take until we have power back to the main?"

"Just in time to pull you back onto the ship before we jump," Rocket tosses me a holographic space suit.

"What's this for?"

"Locating a tracing device planted on the _Milano's_ hull prior to our departure."

"So that's how we were located so quickly," I mutter lost in thought, "Hang on! Are you suggesting a Xandarian is responsible?"

"Or one of us," Rocket shrugs.

"Either scenario is disconcerting," I shake my head, "But never a Guardian, Rocket. I'll never believe it."

"Best locate it before we jump, humie," Rocket cuts to the chase, "or we'll find ourselves the target of another unwanted attack."

"On it," I pop the space suit button below my left collarbone, "Just one thing. When you haul me back in, I'm going to expect that 'full piloting capabilities' have been restored to my station."

Rocket smirks, but takes me by surprise when nodding in agreement, "Since you had the _cojones_ to come see me without your green bodyguard, I'll see what I can do, Quill."

"Damn straight you will." I open the internal hatch and position myself in the interim space near the external hatch. Time to locate the dammed tracer.

* * *

Chapter Seven: TBD


	7. Chapter seven: Inspired

_Come a little bit closer_ _  
_ _You're my kind of man  
_ _So big and so strong  
_ _Come a little bit closer_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Come A Little Bit Closer_

* * *

Chapter Seven: Inspired

 _Orbiting Planet_ _Náret, Fourth rotation_

So who the _hell_ put a tracer on my ship? The list of potential suspects includes, in no particular order, The Sovereign, Kree purists, Thanos, or any a-hole bounty hunter working for those three jackasses. And even though the Guardians patched up relations with the Ravager community, considering that the Nova Corps are primarily focused on rebuilding efforts, code or no, I wouldn't bet against a hungry crew of Ravagers just ready and waiting to turn in our hides for _beaucoup_ _bucks_. For non-Terrans, the term _beaucoup bucks_ is equivalent to: a shit-ton of space credit.

But never fear, Star-Lord is back in the saddle. And in addition to the art of thievery, back in the day, setting a proper tracer was one of my many Ravage _r_ responsibilities. Hell, I wasn't but twelve Earth-years old, when I placed my first tracer.

 _"_ _You know what you're doin' boy?"_

 _"_ _Yes sir. First off, avoid vents, then, consider natural camouflage when possible, always stay away from landing gear or moveable parts – like fins, and uh…."_

 _"_ _Crevices are good, above the mid-line too, right? But going unnoticed, that's your first priority."_

 _"_ _Yondu?"_

 _"_ _What is it, boy?"_

 _"_ _If I do this, you'll keep the others from eating me, right?"_

 _"_ _That's right. If you do your job, for ... oh let me see, the next five shifts or so, I'll make sure no one eats you. Get a solid seal, okay?"_

Back to the present day and age, a few Earth-decades later, I'm half surprised to find myself on the other end of the spectrum, i.e., playing the role of detective. Who knew, right? Just look at me now, suspended in deep space, orbiting an uncharted planet, bungeed at the mid-section to my crippled vessel. _What a day_ …. I mean, the holographic spacesuit is sufficient, but not nearly on par with my beloved helmet that was destroyed during my epic battle against Ego. And then there's a host of smaller inconveniences, like affixing my jet boot attachments outside the spacesuit - an annoying task that can only be accomplished after the suit is activated. Even though this method technically works, I'm not sure how describe it, but the setup feels hinky. Damn. Now more than ever, especially considering the harsh reality of my extinct _Celestial_ powers, I desperately need to rebuild my bag of tricks. Yeah, I know. I'm lucky to be alive, lucky to have survived my encounter with Ego, but all-in-all, I'm still super frustrated about losing my technical equipment. Why? Well, hell, because it took years to perfect my repetoire, and a whole hell of a lot of trial and error to fashion that gear to my liking.

 _Okay, Quill. Stay on target. Time to locate that dammed tracer._ After three failed 'best guesses,' I run my hand through a narrow channel that separates the far edge of the main hatch from the central dorsal thruster. Although it's not a site where I'd personally affix a tracer, the area is wind resistant and highly camouflaged. About mid-way through the channel my hand bumps into an unexpected protrusion, an area where the surface should theoretically remain flat. Edging close enough to peer inside, I'm somewhat surprised that the holographic spacesuit emits just enough light to identify the protrusion.

 _Bingo!_ Tracer found. I unhook a scrap of the _Milano's_ hull from a clip on my jet boots, the size of which is a little larger than the _Zune_ device from Yondu. Speaking of my surrogate dad, it was Yondu who taught me how to remove a tracer without alerting the operator. To do so, one has about thirty earth-seconds to transfer the tracer from one surface to a similar proxy material, all the while, travelling at roughly the same speed and trajectory at the time of transfer. If those conditions are not met, and with that level of interruption to the data feed, the operator can assume that the tracer has been tampered with.

And in less than fifteen earth-seconds, given my full focus and natural savvy, I deftly supplant the tracer from the _Milano's_ surface and successfully transfer it to the scrap metal tile. _Thanks, Yondu_. I've just completed my first Guardian objective since losing my powers. The completed task should more than demonstrate my competence and utility. _Ha ha Rocket! I'm not as much of a useless appendage as you first surmised!_

* * *

 _Swooosh._ The weight of artificial gravity and the warmth of the ship's belly are welcoming after the extreme cold of space. After securing the hatch, I spy my best friend and advocate waiting patiently near the wall casing filled with an assortment of aero-rigs and holographic spacesuits. Without fail, there is a question ready and waiting on her lips, "Did you need to blow off a little steam?"

"Yeah. Just processing my heart to heart with Rocket," I overstate, enjoying the opportunity to engage in some lighthearted banter, "No, I'm just playing." I proudly hold out my prize, the newly mounted tracer, "Found a little something cleverly hidden in the small gap behind the back of the main hatch."

Gamora puzzles over my gift, turning the device two full rotations before asking the obvious, "What is this? Wait. Is this a tracer?"

"Got it on the first try." I flex my fingers; wiggle my toes in order to combat the painful thaw, the natural derivative of exposure to the severe exterior temperature, "Rocket tipped me off." A chill involuntarily rips through me as I lean over to set both boot attachments aside and remove the holographic spacesuit instantly with the press of a button.

"How did Rocket know?"

Impulsively, I pull Gamora in close, wrap my arms around her waist, determined to kiss any confusion from her lips. She's all kinds of warm, and I'm trying to kill two birds with one stone.

She startles, "Peter, your lips are like the ice caverns of Zherbis."

"Mmmmmmm. Warm me up more?" I search her eyes for the answer.

"First, we should determine what should be done with this foreign device."

"And then?" My thumbs probe twin anterior iliac ridges for emphasis. She's evading my request.

"Then we should commence a thorough investigation to find the responsible party."

A disheartened expression unfolds as my hands attempt the impossible, but no matter the effort, it's physically impossible to pull her in any closer.

Her pupils flash, "I too have desires, the likes of which you have not seen, Peter Quill. Some have resorted to the cold weightless refuge of space when I'm done with them."

"Holy _Celestial_ ," my heart rate doubles as I entertain the most lurid of thoughts, "What do you mean? Does this imply you've been holding back? Hang on. Time to get this project rolling. Because the reward sounds far more lucrative than... uh, wait. Going somewhere?"

"I will be at the computer main, compiling a list of potential suspects." Before releasing me, Gamora's fingertips trail from my lower back to outer thigh. The sensation is enough to vanquish my memory of the most piercing cold.

"Rocket!" I holler, "I found it. I've got the tracer."

Inspired, I nearly bowl over Groot while delivering the goods. Apparently my passion to meet Gamora's prescribed conditions supersede Groot's indignation.

"I am Groot!"

"Not bad, Quill," Rocket turns the device over in his dexterous fingers, "Fast for a humie without _Celestial_ privilege."

"Credit where credit is due," my shoulders square and jaw sets, "Yondu trained me well."

"He did," Rocket's eyebrows arch upwards, before he returns his focus back to the recovered tracer. He's careful to conceal a growing smile, but not fast enough. His lightening-quick tell confirms the growing fondness and respect he held for Yondu. And in terms of our relationship, helps reaffirm that I'm still the same Peter Quill he failed to capture on Xandar.

Unfortunately, ignoring Groot, has exacerbated Groot's powerful temper. He howls obscenities while his immature root-like fingers pound the back of my legs and boots, "I aaaammmm Groot!" he bellows, throwing in one more kick for good measure.

" _Universe_ , Quill," Rocket irritates, "what did you do to the twig?"

My ankles and knees crackle in unison as I bend down to Groot, eye-level, "Sorry, Groot. I was overly excited to find the tracer. I didn't look where I was going. It was my fault."

"I am Groot!" he growls, drawing back his stumpy little leg for one more blow to my exposed shin bone.

"Quill's sorry. You need to move on," Rocket admonishes, "Here we go again about your violent rages. Do we really have to talk about this all over again? I told you that you've got to learn how to put these kinds of scenarios in perspective. Not everyone wants a piece of you, remember?"

"Now's where we have a bit of fun with our spy," Rocket grins, "but I'll need to borrow your boot thrusters. And one of Drax's dual knives."

"Hang on," I hedge, "wait a minute now, Rocket. You are using the word 'borrow' erroneously. You're not going to be able to recover those items when you set the tracer off course. And more important, _why_ do you need _one_ of Drax's knives?"

A deep giggle erupts from his belly, and soon every one of Rocket's tiny sharp teeth are exposed, "Oh man, he'll look like such a jackass with a single blade! And ...hahahahah...and, he'll be like, 'Where's my other knife, guys?' Hahahahha hahahahahahahaha!"

I watch in dismay as Rocket folds to the floor in a fit of laughter, likewise, Groot bounces from anger to hysterical glee in seconds.

"Your compulsion boggles my mind, dude."

"Loosen up, Quill," Rocket chuckles, "It's just so dammed hysterical. Anyway, you can pull your undies out of a bunch, 'coz we'll be able to pick up a new pair of boot thrusters – and a far better model at that, on Colony VIII."

"But how are you going to control the thrusters?"

"I have my ways." Rocket boasts, " _Celestials_ , Quill! I just put this dump back in order, and now you're all kinds of testy 'coz I'm asking to _use_ your thrusters. I don't know why you even need 'um. My aero-rigs are ten times better! _Universe!_ I _still_ have to do everything around here." Rocket's eyes narrow, "Hey, what's Mr. Destroyer doing outta bed?"

"He probably heard your asinine plan. He's pretty attached to his knives, doofus."

"Uh, Drax?" I worry aloud, "How are you feeling?"

"It is about time the green one leave me be. Ahhh, now I can truly enjoy some peace and quiet, companion. With her finally out of my space, I can stretch my legs. Perhaps we can listen to some of the new music?"

"Hang on, Drax. I'm with Rocket on this one. Are you sure you are well enough to be walking about?"

"I am not some skinny, ugly, waif," Drax bristles back, "Time and again, Quill... have I not proved myself a valuable warrior?"

"Well, you're not skinny," Rocket chuckles under his breath, then turns to me, "We haven't got all day Quill. Time to throw off our scent and get back on track. You gonna get me those thrusters, or what?"

"Alright, alright," I concede, "But after that, I'll think I'll investigate whether Drax is truly following Gamora's protocol."

"I do not require a baby-sitter," Drax bristles, before setting down near the inbuilt music station, "Nor a green nursemaid."

Handing over my thrusters to Rocket, I add, "And if you find out anything - _anything at all_ about where the tracer originated, I'm expediting this to the top of the list. This a-hole is going to have to answer to me."

"Oh hell yeah, Quill," Rocket pumps his fist in approval.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Havoc


	8. Chapter eight: Havoc

_Most of all he needs the funk_ _  
_ _Help him find the funk_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Flash Light_

* * *

Chapter Eight: Havoc

 _Back en route to 3S-X-Colony VIII – well not really…._

With the _Milano's_ engines back online, we're technically back en route to Colony VIII. I say 'technically,' because Rocket and I decided to add one more 'pit-stop' to the itinerary. Specifically, we've navigated the _Milano_ to the closest jump point to our 'bait,' i.e., a remote controlled tracer powered by my old pair of boot thrusters.

I listen to the _Milano's_ engines strain to make the final push past Planet Náret's gravitational pull. And while one of my primary tasks on the command deck was to get Drax back into the temporary medical unit, my attention has been diverted to monitoring a tiny red dot moving slowly across my navigation grid, "Whoever these a-holes are, they're going to be pretty surprised when they come out of the jump, only to discover that their tracer is no longer suctioned to the _Milano's_ hull."

"I'm gonna laugh for days," Rocket grins, stretching comfortably in his twin piloting station. His fingers curl around the weapons remote, "and I got all my 'special specials' trained on 'um. Ha, they wont even see the little scrap of metal, 'coz they are headed into a gun fight they can't possibly win."

Rocket angles his to the side, his jet-black nose tilted upwards, proud as hell. Our eyes meet briefly, before I nod my approval, "Nice."

Rocket beams broadly, and winks with his right eye, "they won't even know what hit 'um."

"Hiding in wait is cowardly," Drax declares, "If we don't know who is responsible, how can the Guardians attack in this aggressive manner?"

"Easy," Rocket frowns, "I hit this row of buttons repeatedly," his finger hovers over a large red circle, "then this one. This one is the 'special special.'"

"It goes against warrior principles." Drax crosses his massive arms, and leans back on his heels. "Quill?" Drax looks to me for further clarification. But before I can fully address his concern, Gamora comes into view; her be-ringed hands pull her up from the last rung of the ladder. A double take is necessary when I notice Groot riding piggyback; the flexible roots that make up his arms snake under her armpits and curl over her shoulders like twin straps on a backpack.

"What is wrong?" Gamora pulls up full view before crouching down to let Groot down from her back.

"Isn't he getting a little old for that?"

She subtly ignores my question, a question that admittedly is born of jealously, I mean, I'd rather be the one with my arms curled around her, encircling her perfect chest, my belly resting against her the small of her back. Dammit Groot, that's my spot.

"Well?" I rap my fingers against my station's hand rest, "What were you able to uncover?"

"I've been in contact with Dey, updating him on our current situation. He's already begun a discreet internal investigation, specifically into the team of Nova Corps that were in greatest contact with us during the _Milano_ delivery and retrofit. While Dey is loathe to believe such transgression is possible from fellow Nova Corps, he discovered that in the weeks following Ego's attack, at least two Nova Corps personnel were particularly susceptible to finding additional sources of credit."

Upon uttering Ego's name, my anger spikes. I'm simply furious when I think about how far reaching Ego's actions have affected, not just the Guardians, but also the hundreds and thousands of living beings across the galaxy. And to think for a few moments, when Ego showed me his _Celestial_ vision, i.e., when I saw that fucking micro-second of infinity, I almost, _almost_ , just believed him. Dammit. I've got to stop lying to myself. I _did_ believe him. I was ready to lay down my cards and merge into Ego's fold. _Ready to abandon my friends…._

"Peter? Is everything okay?" Gamora's narrows her eyes; equal parts irritated and concerned, "Dey's information is based on an investigation into the exchange and transfer of space credits, and less definitively, communication feeds."

"So _who_ does Dey think we're dealing with?"

"The Sovereign."

"Ha! Surprise, surprise! Well, if they're still looking for a fight, they're going to get one," I lean back into my chair, daring anyone to crosscheck my stance. I'm livid at Ayesha and company. Her persistent desire to prove her culture's superiority severely impacted the Guardians efforts against Ego. Hell, the Sovereign's hindrance at Ego's core, is a primary reason for Yondu's death.

"But our last attackers were not Nova Corp or Sovereign," Drax counters, "Their origin and ships unmarked, as was their pattern of attack. The Sovereign hired bounty hunters, just as the Sovereign hired the Guardians to protect their batteries. There is no way to be certain that the party that comes after our bait deserves the Guardian's full force."

"Drax?" Gamora swirls around one hundred and eighty degrees to see if her ears have deceived her, "You've got to be kidding me! What happened to protocol? We could be thrown into battle at any moment, and you're right back at your station…..completely unprotected!"

"Dammit, woman! I am a warrior, and a warrior is always ready for battle. My hide is thick, like the Obelisk."

"Thick like your head! And if you recall, also dead. _Godslayer_ tore through the Obelisk's hide like any other organic matter. And considering how much 'hide' you sloughed off during my initial treatment, you'd better get below, or I'll drag you to bed."

"No need woman," Drax rumbles, "I know my way. But as a fellow warrior, it will be your job to play the voice of reason," Drax nods his head in our direction, "Quill and Rocket require a lesson in the 'warrior's code.'"

I throw up my hands in the air in mock exasperation, but one glance at Gamora's expression fills me with self-reproach.

"Peter? What is Drax referring to?"

Before I can explain our game plan, Rocket overrides, "Quill and I are set up to blast anything in pursuit of our 'tracer-bait.'"

"So you're going to shoot first, and ask questions later?" Gamora thunders, her eyes trained on mine.

"That's the plan," I confirm, "but it's not like we're going to blast them to smithereens without the appropriate amount of observation. The _Milano's_ sensors can detect whether a vessel has been interacting with the bait, and, from this vantage, surveying the vessel's response to our bait should be more than telling."

"You are making a lot of assumptions," Gamora frowns, "I could come up with a scenario where the actions of one might read as guilt, but after proper investigation, might be completely innocent. We should attack only _after_ we definitively know that the party is guilty."

"That's idiotic!" Rocket chides back, "Then you lose the element of surprise! You can't tell me that warriors don't use the element of surprise."

"Of course warriors use the element of surprise," Gamora bristles, "but we do so, only when we truly understand who our enemy is."

"I'm all ready to go, Quill," Rocket shakes his head in disgust, "but if you'd rather let the Sovereign screw with us, then so be it. Me? I'm not willing to lose another Guardian over some ' _philosophy_.'"

 _Universe!_ I know what's going on, Rocket's itching to see if I'll side with Gamora, or equally damming, if I'll compromise. What would Yondu say? _Hell, boy! Being a leader ain't easy. You just gotta make a decision sometimes. And that means dealing with the consequences. It's ain't a popularity contest, boy…. That's for dammed sure._

"Peter!" Gamora's hands interact wildly across her control panel, "I am reading a build-up of energy; there _is_ activity near the jump point. Yes. Sensors confirm: seven unidentifiable space ships are coming out of the jump."

"You just say the word, Quill." Rocket's fingers hover over a blinking red button.

"Are they tracking the probe?" I query, craning my neck to gauge Gamora's response.

"Sensors indicate that the lead ship _is_ interacting with the probe," she confirms.

"Target their flag ship, Rocket," I command, purposefully avoiding Gamora's willful gaze, "Fire…..now!"

* * *

Chapter Nine: TBD


	9. Chapter nine: Reciprocity

_Surrender  
_ _Surrender  
_ _But don't give yourself away_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Surrender_

* * *

Chapter Nine: Reciprocity

 _Aboard the Milano, situated outside jump point (337.471.357), three klicks from Planet Náret's orbit_

Something happens in the milliseconds between my command, 'Fire…..now!,' and the moment when Rocket's fingers engage with the first round of rapid deployment. It's difficult to explain, but my subconscious inexplicably recognizes something _je ne sais quoi_ about the seven ships and their unique formation. _Dammit…._. _something is wrong_. Jarringly, I wrench the _Milano_ to the right, even though I'm uncertain my last minute reactive measure will make a difference.

"Hold on," I holler, bracing myself as the familiar sensation of weightlessness takes over.

In response to my baffling action, the flight deck fills with a cacophony of responses, ranging from shock to anger. Blocking out the bulk of bewildered reactions, I closely monitor the initial volley of attacks. The first blast was the most direct, but with the _Milano'_ s path altered, the second blast is nearly out of range, and appears to have ineffectually scored the surface of the flag ship. Fortunately, the rest of the volleys _just_ fall out of range. I've done it. I've averted totaling the vessel, i.e., crippling it beyond repair.

"What in the hell, Quill!" Rocket's voice reverberates uncomfortably through the intimate airspace. Gamora's expression is equally puzzled, twin parallel lines run vertically above the bridge of her nose.

"They're medical transport vessels," I explain, "I recognize this type of caravan from my _Ravage_ r days. They travel in groups of seven, and cluster together like a school of fish."

"A school of what?" Rocket shakes his head in disbelief.

"We've just avoided being the biggest a-holes in the galaxy," I declare, wiping beads of sweat from the sides of my face, the adrenaline flashing in my temples like a siren.

"There was damage to their lead," Gamora's eyes are glued to her console, "Shall we assist, Star-Lord?"

Did Gamora just call me Star-Lord? Her word choice slices through my confidence. Fortunately, my desire to rectify my initial zealous command takes precedence, "Yeah. Who's coming with?"

"I'll keep the conn," Rocket volunteers dolefully. His body language: slumped shoulders and heavy brow appear to indicate a level of remorse, or disappointment that he wasn't able to use his 'special special.' Either way, Rocket's sobered up considerably.

"Watch our backs," I mutter, manually inputting a short, but friendly message to the all seven medical transport, outlining our general intent to help, "Any of the old mobile comm-link's working?"

Rocket's face reminds me of the Cheshire cat, well, if the Cheshire cat could wince.

"I guess we'll take two and hope for the best." I swivel out of my seat, before pulling two comm-link's from the wall. My fingertips lightly brush the top of Gamora's shoulder, "Ready?"

* * *

In under five-earth minutes I meet Gamora near the hatch. She's come directly from our small medical supply closet, a pack of emergency supplies strategically strapped to her right side: from lighting strips to a water filtering system. She purposefully avoids adhering attachments to the left side of her body, a phenomena I've only recently noticed: Gamora always leaves an open pathway to the hilt of her sword, lest she need to access her weapon of choice.

Near the perimeter of our inner force-shield Gamora pulls two holographic spacesuits from a side-supply compartment. After tossing one in my direction, she enables her own. From my peripheral, I watch as tiny pinpoints of blue light cover her from head to toe. Gamora's lovely under any illumination, but this neighboring hue softens the sharp angles of her face, gifting her a unique serene glow. In reality, she's downright pensive. And even without enquiring, I'm pretty sure my most recent _faux pas_ is coloring her mood. When her jaw muscle twitches, it becomes obvious that she's aware of my gaze.

"Drax's infection is not improving," she reports, "If we've not fully dissolved our diplomacy with this 'medical convoy,' then perhaps our diplomatic actions will allow us to trade for a stronger antibiotic. In addition, our supply of skin regenerator, an essential remedy Drax will need to continue to utilize until he is fully healed, is nearly decimated."

"Hopefully, they'll understand," I sigh, "I'll take full responsibility for the actions of our crew. Lending the _Milano's_ replicator and back-up alternator should offset any hard feelings, and demonstrate our desire to rebuild trust. I mean, accidents happen and uh," I pause, "No." I shake my head vigorously. "You were right Gamora, I shouldn't have made any assumptions."

Her jaw tightens again, before softening slightly.

Activating my holographic suit, I pull out a pair of aero-rigs, "Ready?"

She nods, then installs her aero-rig before positioning herself in front of the inner hatch, "Ready."

And in a few moments Gamora and I are propelled into the vast vacuum of open space, side by side, flying through the likeness of a jet-black nighttime sky. Despite the circumstances, I find it perfectly magical to share in this moment with Gamora, so much so, that whenever possible I steal quick side-glances, for anything longer than a human heartbeat would push me off track. That particular point is emphasized when I gaze one Earth-second too long, my right fingers brush against hers as I overcorrect to stay on target. I can sense a growing smile, feel her wonder, obstructed slightly when she tucks her chin in towards her chest. My heart warms in the cold outlet of space, I tilt left, purposefully grazing her left arm with my own outstretched hand. With her full-focused attention, I point to the starboard side of the craft. She nods in agreement before we simultaneously veer right towards the medical vessel's most prominent hatch.

* * *

Upon entry into the medical vessel's inner hatch, two young security assistants meet us in order to: greet, assess, and assist. The shorter, and bulkier of the two, deactivates an inner force-shield.

The change in pressure and temperature penetrate my being. An involuntary shiver passes through my shoulder blades before shooting up through the crown of my head. The sickly sensation lasts but a micro-second, and is disarmingly followed by a wave of nausea that barrels in from the opposite direction. I pause to take in a deep breath, using all my remaining inner strength to mask the unsavory feeling - the likes of which, thank the _universe,_ are fading at an equally swift rate.

"You have power?" Gamora addresses the two guards pre-introduction, an obvious question when in the presence of an active inner-force shield and overhead indicator lights. Her eyes circulate, calculating any unforeseen danger.

"Emergency power, yes." The taller assistant explains, "Rowell Taern of Starmedical Transport 521," he holds up his hand as a form of greeting, before introducing his cohort, "And my assistant, Alen Sehnsune."

"Peter Quill," I briefly hold up my hand to mirror Taern, "and fellow crewmate, Gamora. We've supplies to remedy the damage inflicted upon your vessel."

It's impossible for me to ignore the quick eye-contact made between Taern and Sehnsune in response to my simple utterance. Gamora's fingers brush the hilt of _Godslayer_ , but assumptions be dammed. I've already made one too many.

"This way," Sehnsune waves us forward. We follow in single file, Gamora at the rear, directly behind me. We weave through a tight network of hallways, until walls narrow at a point that leaves us the option of a single stairwell. While Gamora and I wait for Sehnsune and Taern to make their way down the stairwell, Gamora leans in, her voice low and barely audible above the successive booming of their boots striking each metal rung, "At the hatch, you felt unwell?"

My mouth gapes, even though I'm not entirely surprised Gamora picked up on my brief episodic bout. Gamora's visual acuity is second to none.

"Whatever it was, it's gone. I'm good," I confirm just above a whisper, "And Gamora... no matter the scenario, we should avoid splitting up."

"Agreed."

Turning one hundred and eighty degrees, I start my descent down the stairwell. At one rung down, my face is level with hers. I fight the desire to pull her into a kiss. My guess is that she'd probably chop my head clean off with one swift blow. _Ahhhh, death by Godslayer._ Instead, I give her my best Peter Quill send off: a devilish smirk followed up by a wink, and that's that. A new adventure awaits us below….

* * *

Auxillary power is just enough to illuminate walkways, ensure artificial gravity, and maintain a handful of basic life-support functions. While Gamora is running the replicator over the most heavily damaged areas, I'm 'mending fences' with the Captain Hulmsii and her high-ranking crew. To demonstrate my desire to work past my 'grave error in judgement,' I divvy out Gamora's pack of emergency supplies, and a lot of Quill charm. I know that Gamora barely tolerates my proclivity to politicking, and I am in no way suggesting that I am the the best diplomat in the galaxy, over the years, I've had to learn how to talk my way out of a few 'pickles.' Either way, I think I'm making headway. How so? Well, the crew hasn't jettisoned me off the ship yet.

"Captain? Captain Hulmsii! How much longer until full power is restored!?" A perturbed medic bursts awkwardly onto the command deck, "The Guardians brought a back-up alternator, and one of our patients is barely stabilized, we're only mid-surgery…."

"We're using the alternator to run the replicator," I interject, "And based on experience, you should be back up and running in less than an eighth of a shift."

The medic swivels towards me, a puzzled expression, "Peter Quill?"

"Yes?" I reply, equal parts confused.

The medic pulls back the corner of his surgery gown to reveal a Nova Corps uniform, then, after withdrawing his mask, visor, and cap, I recognize his face as one of a few medical technicians who helped attend to me when I experienced my 'black out' incident on Xandar.

"You work for the Nova Corps?"

"I _am_ Nova Corps...just recently assigned, two Xandarian-days earlier, to this transport. If you recall, Star-Lord, I'm Aeden Ser, recently promoted to first assistant. I met you at the Nova Corps medical unit for symptoms related to heat exhaustion."

"Yeah, yeah," I frown, feeling the pressure of too many eyes and ears trained onto this particular, and somewhat personal, conversation, "I remember. Thanks for your help. No further issues. Cured." I open my arms and twirl, trying my best to downplay the 'heat-exhaustion' commentary. "It's good to see that the Nova Corps can spare some of their best and brightest."

Ser gradually tilts his head downward, a simmering gesture that might come off as mere irritation, or mark Ser as one of the most humorless humanoids I've had the displeasure of running into in this quadrant. Well, Xandarians can run a little stiff, save my favorite Xandarian, Rhomann Dey.

"If you'll excuse me, I should like to return my attention to my patient and head surgeon," Ser bows his head, "I leave this less than ideal restriction in the _capable_ hands of the Guardians of the Galaxy."

I bow my head to match Ser's gesture, even though Ser's words didn't necessarily come off as sincere, "And when your patient is stabilized, Ser, might I have a further conversation with you that would allow for some reciprocity? Once again, reinforcement of the mutual respect held between the Guardians and the Nova Corps, uh, with the permission of the Captain Hulmsii and this fine Medical caravan, of course."

"Of course," Ser nods and dismisses himself from the conversation, turning quickly and working fervently to resituate his surgical gear.

* * *

With full power restored to Starmedical Transport 521, I feel a whole helluva lot better. But based on the urgency in Rocket's last communiqué, (" _I'm not one to get all mushy over another humanoid, but Drax ain't looking so hot, or smelling so good either. Send someone back over here with supplies, stat! Hurry up before Groot learns CPR."_ ), Gamora will be responsible for delivering emergency supplies to the _Milano_ , i.e., a new strain of antibiotics, some heavy-duty pain-injectors and a healthy supply of skin regenerator, while I'll stay aboard ST 521 to patch up the second blast.

I strap the final attachment into place on the last square-inch Gamora has free on her person, the likes of which contain an odd-assortment of supplies and a back-up alternator, "Ha Ha," I snicker.

"What?"

"You look like the Michelin man."

"Is he another Terran warrior, like Mary Poppins?"

"Something like that," I tease, "although most girls at my Terran school might not have liked that particular comparison."

Gamora puzzles, but a smile warms her face, "As far as I can remember, I've never been like most girls."

"Damn straight," I nuzzle up to Gamora, pull her in close to place a kiss between her jawline and neck.

"You did the right thing, Peter."

"Funny thing is, in the past, I'd of given up one of my blasters to hear a person of your stature address me as Star-Lord."

"But now?"

"Now? Hands down, I prefer Peter."

"Be safe," Gamora demands, "And please hurry..."

I warm at her concern, "Wish I could fly back with you. Although, this will be a much shorter flight."

Gamora's eyebrows arch in question before I can explain, "Rocket's positioned The _Milano_ as close as he can get without bumping into the hull." My fingers are restless, they linger on the rims of her rings, massage the inside of her palms, "Okay, best get up and out, time to get these stopgap measures to Drax."

She nods, "Bring a medic, Peter. If not, I worry that Drax's condition may warrant an additional pit-stop."

"Of course," I squeeze her hands one last time before guiding her into the inner hatch.

She turns a one-eighty, worry occluding her cool-headedness, "We weren't supposed to separate."

"It's safe here," I counter, "And it's important to finish what I started."

"It's just some…"

"Unspoken thing?"

Gamora attempts to smile, but her overall expression still reads overburdening concern, "No, Peter. What Mantis said…. I can feel it again."

"Ego's gone. And we're light years away from his destructive warpath. It's fine. I'm going to be okay," I reiterate, "Okay? Now take good care of Drax."

Even after the inner force shield activates, I opt to stay until the last moment, watching as Gamora makes her way through the inner hatch. With replicator in hand, I will my head to refocus, for I've still got two important tasks ahead of me: 1) Fix the last section of the vessel damaged by our blast, and 2) Find an available medic to assist Drax.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Ego


	10. Chapter ten: Ego

_You're still young, that's your fault  
_ _There's so much you have to go through_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Father & Son_

* * *

Chapter Ten: Ego

 _Aboard Starmedical Transport 521_

The replicator display shows 99% completion. Two more up-and-down passes over the final edge of a 'moon-shaped' gash should fully restore the secondary hull damage to _ST 521's_ outer hull. Security assistant Taern has been assigned to keep an eye on my progress, but in reality, he's been talking my ear off. Space _can_ be isolating, downright lonely, but not in the company of SA Taern.

"Rumor has it, you held an infinity stone."

"Uh-huh," I tilt the replicator head upwards, slow and steady over a triangle tipped opening.

"So, the rumor is true?"

"Well, yes. But keep in mind, I didn't hold onto the stone for very long," I try to play down the feat with tone and gesture, before adding, "Not without support."

I angle the replicator head at an even angle, permanently closing the last corner of the gash with a final downward pass.

"How do you mean?"

"Well," I pause, ruminating how I can convey the story from a perspective that minimizes my 'less-than-ordinary' heritage. I mean, my action might have helped save the universe, but the phenomenon that came to pass was more likely due to that of my unique hybrid status. "I know one thing, I couldn't have done what I did if I didn't have the support of my friends at my side. I mean, they literally joined my efforts. They supported me, and then together we were able to use the stone's power to defeat Ronan." When the replicator confirms 100% completion, I swivel around and hold the display up to Taern to confirm completion. As I power the replicator off, the ship's power noticeably fluxes, corridor lights flicker.

"That thing sure sucks a lot of energy," Taern observes. He looks a little disappointed, but it's hard to say if he's sorry that my job is finished and a) he can't talk my ear off anymore or b) my version of the 'holding an infinity stone,' didn't meet his expectations.

I nod, and begin to fold up the replicator for transport, "Very true. It's one of the main reason we brought the alternator."

"All right then, Mr. Quill," Taern gestures in the direction that leads back to the main deck, "I'll escort you to Command Central, and then I guess you'll be on your way. Time to go back to saving the galaxy with your green associate."

"Thanks, Taern." I smile upon hearing his Gamora descriptor. Green associate? That's a new one. I wonder if he might refer to me as the pink Terran, or somewhat colorless monstrosity that once briefly held an infinity stone.

* * *

With my first task completed, repairing _ST 521's_ damaged hull, it's time to fulfill my promise to Gamora, and find an available medic to assist Drax. Back at Command Central, I'm preparing for the right opening to make my formal plea to Captain Hulmsii.

"Even under these unique circumstances, I _am_ appreciative of the Guardians assistance, Star-lord," Captain Hulmsii bows her head slightly, her hands fall back gracefully into the folds of her tunic, "In my experience, responsibility, courtesy, and humility are rare traits in this day and age."

I bow my head to return Captain Hulmsii's pronouncement, "Thank you, Captain. I hope that the rest of your journey is far less eventful. I'd volunteer our assistance to guide you to your next port, but I'm afraid the Guardians might attract far worse characters considering the enemies we've incited since the Guardians formed shortly after our, uh, after our imprisonment at the _Kyln_."

"I wish you an equally safe journey," Hulmsii nods, "Taern? Will you please see Star-Lord safely to his ship?"

"Captain Hulmsii?"

Hulmsii looks somewhat surprised by the tone and manner of my interjection, "Is something wrong, Star-Lord?"

"Prior to our fateful meeting, one of my Guardians sustained severe burns in a dogfight against an unspecified local threat, and uh," I pause, because I'm starting to realize how idiotic my request is starting to sound.

"You need further assistance, Star-Lord?" Hulmsii pauses briefly, her eyes slowly scan mine, "Then you shall have it. Shall I order a medic to your ship, or might you prefer to transfer your Guardian here?"

"It might be difficult to transfer him, Captain," I consider, "But, I understand that asking for a medic will only serve to deplete the resources you've retained from their original destination ... and delay prior commitments, as uh, we've already done."

"We can spare a medic," Hulmsii generously offers, "I'll appoint one to a shuttle, so that they will be able to rejoin our efforts after they have attended to your Guardian."

I bow my head again, "Very considerate, thank you."

"Hmmmm," Hulmsii muses aloud, "a medic that can both cure, and pilot. I believe we've only a few that fit the bill."

* * *

Soon after, I'm not surprised to see Nova Corps medic, Aeden Ser, checking inventory aboard a small, four-humanoid maximum capacity, shuttlecraft. The front of the shuttle has two twin captain's chairs, while the remaining open space serves primarily for transport of injured personnel. It's roughly the size of a large Terran ambulance.

"Thank you for your help," I speak with authentic gratitude, "I know this probably wasn't the assignment you had in mind when you joined _Starmedical_."

Ser shrugs unapologetically, setting a travelling bag in a bin attached to the back of the starboard pilot seat.

"Drax is a big guy, uh, I mean, a strong warrior. He's gone through a few gnarly scenarios in our short time together, but I've never seen him suffer an injury like this, an injury that has really taken him out of commission."

"With the exception of blunt force trauma, burns are one of the most common injuries I've had to deal with while working with Nova Corps personnel."

"Well, I guess Drax is in good hands." I flash my best smile, because it's really hard to read this guy, and every communication I've thrown his way seems to be hitting an invisible brick wall.

"I know what I am doing," Ser bristles, "if that's what you're asking. But it depends on the severity of the Guardian's burns. That, and how much surface area was affected. Infection is common, but a organic creature's skin is the largest organ on most humanoids. If the burn is widespread, and of a severe degree…"

"Oh, uh, I don't know," I interrupt prematurely – half because I don't want to hear that Drax's injuries might be a much more serious issue than I first anticipated, "Hang on," I pull the comm-link from my belt clip, "Gamora? Rocket? Do you read?"

"Quill! What's holding you up? You bringing a medic?"

"Yup," I reassure, "And we'll be parallel parking near the top hatch in a few. Everything okay?"

"Gamora and Groot have the 'thick-skulled smelly one' contained and drugged," Rocket explains, "But I'm glad you are bringing a real expert in, totally overdue. Wait! Why are you parallel parking?"

"More on that soon. Hang on, lots of static." I smack the edge of the com-link with my palm, "we really need to purchase a new set of com-links on _Colony XIII_ …..I only heard about half of what you said. That's pretty bad as your only half of a Terran football field away from me, with zero space disturbance."

"Terran what? Quill? Quill? You're breaking up.….."

The static belches, crackling angrily near my ear. Ser seems settled, i.e., ready to launch the shuttle, but he's ruffling through his personal knapsack, "Can you send a request to Command Central? Have them open the bay doors?"

"Sure," I shrug, setting my com-link aside, and engaging the shuttle's interactive comm-board, "They've given us the go ahead." As the last word leaves my tongue, I'm only mildly surprised when the shuttle gently eases forward, "Is it on tracks?" I query, mystified by the subtle niceties of ST 521's modern shuttlecraft system.

"No tracks. It's on auto-pilot," Ser explains, "a child could fly this, or at least get it in and out of the bay."

"Self-directing," I mumble, curious as I watch the instruments automatically gauge and calculate our route to departure, "how long can Command Central retain control of the shuttle?"

Ser doesn't respond, for he's still rifling through his bag as though he's forgotten some essential ingredient.

"Did you forget the keys?" I wisecrack, wondering if Ser will request that I, or Command Central, parallel park the shuttle over the _Milano's_ main hatch.

But Ser's expression is all things smug. Locating the 'essential item,' Ser produces a small container out of his knap sack. The contents might be medicine, they appear as a dark compound the consistency of a powder, ash, or dust….nothing really. Holding the contents to the light, Ser snaps the container open. Within seconds of exposure to the shuttlecraft's closed-circulation air system, I find myself the cruel victim of paralysis. Immediately, the identity of the substance in the jar becomes disturbingly obvious. But it's too late to do anything, my muscles contract violently, my airway tightens, while the familiar sensation of dizziness, nausea and pain combine in a way that overrides my senses. I fight to stay conscious, to pull air into my lungs, to hold my bladder.

"Wow," Ser puzzles, "That was instantaneous. Looks like the effects of your bio-father's remains are highly effective. What a strange phenomena! I thought it might take more effort to restrain the likes of _Star-Lord_ , but I guess all I need to do is keep the lid to this container ajar and in close proximity."

Ser appears pleasantly bemused at my newfound vulnerability, "what a mess you are, drooling all over yourself. From what I understand, Aeysha frowns upon untidiness and sloth. I guess I'll need to clean you up before presentation."

I spit, trying desperately to form words to express my displeasure. Ser ignores my unintelligible attempts at communicate. He rolls me unceremoniously on the floor, before roping my hands for good measure. I slump into place, muscles tiring from firing on and off randomly. Sadly, the exhaustion from the violent reaction to Ego's detritus has exhausted my nervous system, and crippled my physical abilities.

"You're a real a-hole," I finally manage above a whisper. Ser ignores my slight, setting course for a jump to the Sovereign, a jump that's less than a click away.

"Really, Peter Quill? I lost everything when your Father's 'little ticking time bomb' set off and went haywire on Xandarian soil. An 'a-hole' for shunting you away from Xandar for good? When I collect all the credits I earn from turning you into the Sovereign, I'll be able to help more Xandarians than you ever managed."

"It was the Guardians that prevented Ronan from…." I'm silenced as a new wave of pain billows through my agitated nervous system.

"Right. But what's the point of saving lives, when only weeks later I was forced to watch half of the capital destroyed by your _Celestial_ parent's seedling!" Ser scoffs, "I'd rather have been wiped out in an instant."

"Selfish," I manage between heavy breaths, my eyes trained on the container that holds Ego's detritus. _How the hell can I shut that dammed lid?_

Before I can come up with a plan, it becomes painfully apparent that my word choice, 'selfish' struck a chord. Lightening quick, Ser's foot agonizingly connects between my legs.

"I tried to control my temper," Ser shakes his head, looming over my curled form, fetal position to protect my aching innards, "but I don't give a damn about Ayesha's intentions. She'll just have to wait for the swelling to go down. No? You didn't know? I guess she holds some sick fascination about your hybrid _Celestial_ status. Getting it on with a god? Well, whatever you did to _turn on_ that Sovereign bitch on is beyond me. I had the impression you were less of a whore than your father, as you seem to have a solid thing for the 'green death machine.' But clearly that's not the message you sent to Ayesha. Either way, Hybrid or no, I'm not impressed. Time to shut it, Peter Quill - or I'll personally make sure you won't produce progeny like your father."

In the background, the comm-link gurgles with static intermixed with chatter. It takes every ounce of focus to help me piece together the gist of Gamora's worried communiqué, "Peter? Peter! The shuttle is moving towards the jump point. Peter?"

* * *

Chapter Eleven: TBD


	11. Chapter eleven: Mortal (I of II)

_Chain keep us together  
_ _Running in the shadow_

 _-_ Lyrics from _The Chain_

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Mortal (Part I of II)

 _Starmedical Transport 521 Shuttlecraft 0023A_

I imagine the worry that has taken over Gamora's face: her eyes half hidden beneath dark olive eyelids, her concern masked by pursed lips, her dark brown eyes cast downward as she looks inward for the answers. It's the same way she carried herself on Ego's planet.

And then there is the issue of Drax. Drax, who was Gamora's number one priority until Rocket informs her that our shuttlecraft is erroneously heading towards the jump point. I expect that Gamora's adrenaline spikes when I fail to respond to her urgent hails. She understands that something has gone terribly awry. And under the circumstances, it seems likely that Gamora contacts Captain Hulmsii. I envision the stark contrast that scenario provides: a conversation where Gamora doesn't exchange pleasantries, and Captain Hulmsii calmly provides what she can, offering to help Drax and the Guardians with my immediate recovery.

When Gamora and Hulmsii's conversation ends, I picture Gamora taking fully charge of the situation, barking out commands to Rocket in short demanding bursts. In turn, Rocket will execute Gamora's orders without lip. He too, understands the severity of the situation, and cautiously respects the ire that is powering "the most dangerous woman in the galaxy."

What I imagine seems all so clear - so clear that I can only wonder half-heartedly if Gamora can dive into my psychic space too.

 _Ser is taking me to the Sovereign._

I remember the warrior's bond Drax waxed on about. _"There is something between you ….. something that is far more complex than dancing…a pairing with an unbreakable bond…. lives revolve around one another….as a satellite moon revolves around a planet."_

While bearing down under the weight of another surge of pain, I can see Drax lying heavily drugged in the Milano's makeshift medical area…..and Groot, his golden eyes wide with concern, threading tiny branched fingers together tightly as he worries incessantly by Drax's side. I'm terrified I'll never see Drax again – that I've let him down – that I've let all the Guardians down. At the same time, I'm painfully reminded that I should have asked Drax more about what it means to share a 'Warrior's Bond.' That unbreakable bond, that something between us – are there other ways for Gamora and I to communicate? Will that force, _as a satellite moon revolves around a planet,_ draw Gamora to me as Ser transports me to Ayesha?

 _The Sovereign, Gamora. I'm being taken to Ayesha. The Sovereign. Ayesha. The Sovereign. Ayesha._

* * *

After nearly an Earth-hour under the influence of Ego's detritus, I've recognized a pattern to the waves of interference: first paralysis, followed by dizziness, and finally incapacitating nausea. Then just as the nausea subsides, i.e., just when I think I may regain a sense of normalcy, a new cycle commences: a kind of pulsing in my veins, and the symptoms reverse so that I feel an overpowering clarity, followed by a surge of intensity, like I'm on the verge of feeling intense pleasure, only to be overcome by a prickly cold sensation that overwhelms me from the outside in.

 _Count to ten, Quill. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. No, you are counting to fast. Slow down._ And usually before I hit the double-digit numbers, the cycle starts all over again: Shockwaves of pain, paralysis, dizziness and nausea.

"You have him?"

 _Shit. I recognize that voice._

"Yes, Ms. Ayesha. Where shall I deliver him?"

"I can't have him here, not yet. But soon, very soon. Politics, you know?"

Ser doesn't respond immediately, "and you will transfer the agreed credits?"

"Yes. Upon delivery of course, I have an alternative location…..may I see him?"

"Of course. Well, he's not in the best shape. The Celestial ashes, they have a very unique affect on Mr. Quill."

"I need to see that he is in _tact_ ," Ayesha giggles.

"Send the coordinates," Ser directs, "In the meantime, I'll ready Quill."

I happen to be in the state where I feel prickly and cold, the knowledge of another wave of pain, agitates, "Ser, if you don't shut the lid, I won't be able to stand on my own."

Ser surveys the scenario, "Okay," he agrees, "but if you even make to try anything," his voice lowers to a dangerous whisper, "Then I'm going to pound you into the ground. Follow?"

I nod my head in full agreement. Try anything? _Universe!_ Just look at me! The waves of illness prevent me from any semblance of contol. My only motivation lies in convincing Ser to close the dammed lid, i.e, anything to prevent another exhausting cycle. From my peripheral, I watch eagerly as Ser seals the container. He slips it into a large side pocket that rests on his right leg, just below his kneecap. After a moment passes, it takes every ounce of energy to lift off the ground, square my shoulders, and walk forward to the monitor. Ser briefly attends to my face with a hand towel. He motions me forward, and I walk towards the rectangular monitor, the image of Ayesha golden moon-shaped face is sickeningly larger than life.

"Ahhhh, Mr. Quill. How delightful to see you again."

"I can't say the feeling is mutual," I manage, the anger spiking despite my fatigue.

"Now. Now. We were so civil upon our initial introduction. Well, before that traitorous rodent you keep under your command stole my batteries."

"Rocket's his own sentient being. And he's not a rodent, your high priestess-ness."

"Tell me Mr. Quill," Ayesha's golden eyebrows furrow, "Do you still feel the Celestial stirrings within you? Have you retained Daddy's power?"

"Not according to Ego. You see, now that his planet is no more, there is absolutely nothing special about me."

"But the ashes affect you, Mr. Quill," Ayesha frowns, "now how can that be?"

I shrug unapologetically, "All I know is that I'm ordinary, Ayesha. Displeasingly, mortal. So what could you possibly want from a hybrid orphan of no genealogical significance? I don't have the batteries. They were used to destroy Ego's planet. So let's see, I don't have powers, I don't have batteries, therefore, I don't have anything a person of your stature could possibly want."

"Well that's not all," Ayesha smirks, "for you see, I was looking forward to a little academic research."

"Not interested," I shake my head, "Ser, you went to all this trouble for nothing."

"Not interested?" Ayesha laughs, " _Everyone_ is interested Mr. Quill. _Everyone_. And of course you still have your father's power within you. Granted, you may not know how to access and use those powers, but that holds little value for my purposes." Ayesha folds into another fit of laughter, " _Not interested?_ Why that's the most idiotic lie I've heard come out of your mouth, Mr. Quill. Perhaps you are not at your best, but I saw it in you before. Of course you want me."

"No. No I don't." I shake my head with full assurance, "Even Ser knows this to be true. Why? Because I _have_ that kind of romantic, sexual love for only _one_ person in this galaxy. A fact that was confirmed by Ego's empathic assistant."

"Another lie," Ayesha eyes flash red, "that's impossible! Who could possibly be more desirable than I? No one, Mr. Quill! I _will_ have you, and I _will_ reveal in the moment when you can no longer disguise your true feelings."

"Ha! You'd have to drug me to get me into bed with the likes of you."

Ayesha's eyes widen like spheres, her temper surging through her core. For an Earth-second, I am pretty sure that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.

"You may bring him in dead or alive, Ser." Ayesha's voice is terrifyingly calm and controlled, "I'll transfer the credits upon delivery to The Sovereign capital. If alive, it will be an eventful trial. If dead, we'll let his rotting core serve as a warning to all those foreigners who dare disrespect _The Sovereign_."

"I am setting the coordinates now," Ser nods his head, "you'll have him alive. Trained in the field of medicine, I am forbidden to harm."

But Ayesha has already closed off communications; her actions underlining her severe lack of empathy for all.

"Really? Forbidden to do harm?" I jibe, "Think you can you keep the lid on that jar, and your feet away from my junk?"

"Shut it, Quill," Ser roars, "Do you _actually_ believe you're in the position to be such an incredible irritant?"

"Then you've given me no choice," I admit, taking in a deep breath before I run full bore, leading with my left shoulder, straight into Ser. I hear him howl in pain, for he takes the brunt of the fall and lands with my weight directly over his. I twist to the right, cognizant of the canister in his pant-leg pocket.

Ser violently flails beneath me. I parry, evading a barrage of elbows and knees. He's tiring, but so am I - and Ser knows it. I mean, I've been under the effect of Ego's detritus for Earth-hours. But as I wait for the barrage of Ser's next round of blows, a familiar voice booms through the comm.

"Greetings, douche-bag of a Xandarian. Currently, I've a variety of six highly devastating weapons locked on to your puny shuttlecraft. That, of course, doesn't include the most dangerous psychopath warrior in the universe. Yup, she's planning to punch through your hull about…..now."

* * *

Ack. I'm still ill. Apologies to my readers. There is a second portion, Chapter Eleven: Mortal (Part II), heading down the pike soon. Cheers!


	12. Chapter eleven: Mortal (II of II)

_Chain keep us together  
_ _Running in the shadow_

 _-_ Lyrics from _The Chain_

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Mortal (Part II of II)

 _Starmedical Transport 521 Shuttlecraft 0023A_

The sound of Rocket's smug voice filling the singular chamber of the shuttlecraft feels like home. I'm buoyed. Even though I can't see the Milano, I know she's close – and so is Gamora. In a matter of Earth seconds, the shuttlecraft shakes violently. Almost simultaneously, a deafening crunch punctuates the air.

In that fraction of momentary distraction, Ser sinks his teeth into my left forearm. His teeth work past the thin fabric of my pullover, drawing blood. My howl commingles with Gamora's terrible battle cry. A streak of silver swirls in powerful circular arcs. The open space around our mismatched wrestling match is quartered by metal. Reactively, I roll to the side, away from Gamora's punishing blade.

"Weapon," I pant, pointing, "Right leg, side pocket…."

It might be the most bizarre warning I've ever verbalized, but I know damn well that if Gamora shatters the canister, I'll be as helpless as a week-old kitten.

"If he as much as blinks an eye," Gamora warns in a cerulean tones, " _Godslayer_ will carve him to pieces."

"That's what I love about my lady," I vouch, slowly pulling myself back up to a seated position, "she's humorless on the battlefield, and _always_ true to her word."

"Hands above your head," Gamora commands, edging Ser with the tip of her boot, "Is it explosive?" she queries, her eyes never leaving Ser.

"Not exactly," I offer, "Well, I doubt its efficacy on you. It's my _Kryptonite_."

"Peter?" Gamora sternly prods for specificity.

"Ego's detritus from Xandar."

There is utter silence as Gamora dissects my explanation. Crouching in the wake of her athletic silhouette, I'm not privy to her expression. Not that she'd offer one. Gamora's notorious poker face suppresses most tells. And the few that I've come to identify are subtle as hell.

"How are you not..." Gamora begins, before I finish her line of thinking.

"It's contained."

"Roll it towards me." Gamora calmly commands Ser, the toe of her boot angling into his ribcage, "Slowly," she adds with emphasis.

Ser, who has remained noticeably quiet during this entire affair, obeys. His hand snakes into his pant leg pocket. But before the container comes into full view, a familiar prickly sensation flows from the base of my spine, creeping upward towards the nape of my neck. That Ser is able to loosen the lid upon retrieval is my unfortunate oversight.

"It's...," I manage before I'm overcome by powerful sensations.

Gamora swivels in time to see my frame crumple to the shuttlecraft floor. Her eyes flash wide in distress, "Peter!"

I'm choking to suck in oxygen, my throat swelling, eyes and nostrils leaking. The reaction appears to intensify with each consecutive contact, from a mild allergic reaction to anaphylactic shock. I make to speak, but the words refuse to flow as I try directing her to the container. Ser uses the moment to strike at the container violently, the contents of which spill in every direction.

Gamora roars in frustration, for it's more than clear that at this juncture, any effort to contain the scattered detritus would be in vain. Expertly, she unclips a holographic spacesuit from her belt and presses it on my chest, activating the protective covering in Earth seconds.

My body jerks powerfully as I fight to take in my first breath of purified air. Each subsequent breath allows more oxygen into my blood stream, allowing the vile effects of the Ego's seed to clear my system. And again, Ser has successfully distracted me with another round of sabotage. Even now, the recovery time prevents me from following his furtive actions. I've barely normalized when he lunges forward, a device held high in his right hand for maximum impact. But this time he's not directing his attack at me.

"Gamora!" I warn helplessly as Ser drives a Jet Injector into her side. He pays fully for his efforts when Gamora reactively drives the butt of her sword into his midsection. As rewarding as it is to see Ser felled by Gamora's powerful blow, it's more disturbing to contemplate the contents of the medical cocktail Ser has injected into her system.

In a twist of fates, Gamora shrinks to the floor. Her breathing is steady, but strained.

"What did you give her?" I freak out on Ser, standing menacingly over his quaking body.

Gamora's eyes close as if she's meditating. Her breathing is more shallow now, she folds forward, her body disturbingly limp. Fear tears at my gut, my eyesight diminished by the buildup of tears. "An antidote, now!" I thrust out my hand, to accept or strike. The desire to kill Ser quenched merely by the fact that I may need him to save her.

Ser coughs and wheezes in pain, "There's….none...potent medical concoction….used to euthanize. Sedative and powerful upper. Cardiac arrest."

"No. You're wrong," I tremble, "you're mistaken."

"Not playing, Quill. She's got two, maybe three minutes at best..."

"That goes for you, too." I retort fitfully, wondering if the enhancements Thanos gifted Gamora will grant her a few more goddamned minutes than Ser pronounced.

The blue glow of my holographic suit, plays off Gamora, subtly distorting my ability to gauge her fading color. I place the palm of my hand under her jawline, and am disheartened by the strength of her pulse. I'm panicking something big. I rest my left ear over her heart. My heart pounds in my throat, stronger, louder, faster. _Dammit, no!_ I've been here before. Tears start flowing fast and furious, blurring my vision – _freaking me the fuck out_ \- when the warm droplets fall upon her skin and she registers nothing. _Nothing._

 _Peter, take my hand._

The memory at Mom's deathbed combines with the memory of Gamora floating unconscious in space, only several knots from _Knowhere_. Time is standing still and I'm unwittingly trapped, yet again, in one of these dammed spacesuits...just as I'd been when Yondu sacrificed his own life for me. Time is moving slower, grinding to a halt…..even as my heartbeat sets a frenzied cadence like I'm racing against something far greater than myself. Death is outpacing me again….

Gamora's pulse is frighteningly irregular, spotty, out of synch with my own – and there's a cold unresponsiveness when my fingertips brush up against her skin. Circulation, not enough circulation, "C'mon Gamora. No…No, No. No!"

 _Please._

 _Stop it. It's time to find the answer, or you're going to lose her too. Think dammit!_

 _…_ _.the seeds are extensions of Ego. Any matter that was created by Ego, carries Ego's aura…._

 _…_ _..You're mortal! How?..._

 _…_ _I don't use my head to fly the arrow, boy. I use my heart…._

 _…_ _Peter! Take my hand…_

My hand slips around hers. Her fingers are cool and soft against my sweaty palm, all sticky and hot as I close my eyes and breath in deep from my core. It takes my full focus to release from the incapacitating fear that has confined me to a pattern of destructive thoughts. In here _Gamora's eyes reflect Knowhere's neon skyline, "The melody is pleasant," she confirms a decibel too loud. My fingers rest on the curves of her hips as a soft smile plays at the corner of her mouth….the low forest light catches the cranberry highlights of her hair, this time her hands wrap tightly around mine, "If he ends up being evil_ _,_ _we_ _'_ _ll_ _just_ _kill him." ….. then the ground swirls beneath me and solidifies underneath my feet. We're all here, standing on the metallic command deck of Yondu's Ravager vessel. The beautiful light show dazzles all, but Gamora's gaze is elsewhere, she waits to make contact with mine. "What?" I mouth lamely. "It's just…some unspoken thing." And after I pull her in close, she affectionately hooks her arm around my waist, with small, but powerful fingertips smoothing and soothing the fabric of my shirt, up and down, before resting comfortably above curve of my hip. And then it's after the fleet of Ravagers disappears when she's wrapped tightly_ _against my frame, and I'm breathing in the lovely scent of her…._

"Gamora," I plead quietly.

Her eyes blink twice in rapid succession, she stares, struggles and fights to hold a semblance of focus. Her eyes are the same dark lovely brown, but only slightly less, only slightly less sheer: the sheen of viscous fluid pools heavy at twin creases.

I know the answer. Somehow I've known it all along.

But just in case I fail, I lean forward and place a kiss on her forehead, simultaneously punching the center of my chest, deactivating the holographic suit.

Gamora flinches. She understands, thrashing wildly, shaking her head in protest. Her mouth gapes to holler at me, " _Peter, no!_ " But she's too weak. No sound prevails. Ser watches wordlessly, as I scoop up a handful of the Ego's detritus. My right hand remains tightly clasped to Gamora's. I am determined to ride what might be the most intense cycle of sheer power I've experienced since being reintroduced to the remnants of my Celestial parent.

As predicted, a powerful cycle amplifies and I feel a myriad sensations rip through my body, intense pain and the strange tingling sensation of raw energy wrapped into one. The feeling is analogous to how I felt as Ego's amplification battery, a fiery tendril slicing through my solar plexus. But likewise, there is the intense rhythmic pulsing sensation, as when the Infinity Stone was clasped tightly in my palm, Gamora's hand gripped tightly in the opposite hand, just as it is now. And in some ways, the connection is grounding. But on the other hand, the intensity of sensation threatens to send me over the edge….to scramble my brain. So I shift from my thoughts to the underlining raw emotions, as I did when directing the pulsing energy at Ronan, _"You said it yourself, bitch. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy."_ Or when I tapped into a similar channel, one that allowed me to direct my own _Celestial_ energy against Ego. _"You shouldn't have killed my mom and squished my walkman..."_

This time, my hand is shaking as I attempt to find a way to channel my energies through her.

 _Control Quill, control. If not I'll kill her._

And when I feel the intensity is just right, I redirect the energy through her, using whatever it is that I've got to combat and clear the toxic contents of the Jet Injector out of her system. And I know it's working, I don't know how to explain it, but it's our unspoken thing, that warrior's bond, our unique connection.

I release my hands when I hear Gamora's voice above the overpowering sensations that are still firing through me like synapses on stimulants, "Peter, Peter. It's okay. It's okay. I'm okay. What...what did you just do?" I watch her shake her head slowly from side to side, " _Peter_ , you didn't lose your powers."

"I don't know what happened," I admit, still shaking from the residual intensity, "I thought you were going to… that you wouldn't survive."

Gamora gingerly edges herself into a sitting position.

"How do you feel? Are you okay?"

"I think so," Gamora mumbles, slightly distracted by the blinking light on her comm-link, "Hold on," She activates the link, "Rocket?"

"Hey, what the hell is taking you so long?" Rocket's voice booms through the inner chamber, "You got Quill?"

"We're good, Rocket. Ready the hatch." I interject, before turning to Gamora "Now let's get the hell out of here."

"What about Ser?"

"We'll tow the shuttle back to Hulmsii. I'll let her sort out Ser's fate."

"Or you could let him work it out with Ayesha."

"Ha! I'm not _that_ cruel. Hang on, how did you know where Ser was taking me? Did you? Could you actually…."

Gamora nods, her eyes have regained their beautiful clarity, brimming with light, "I can't explain it. A kind of connection, that I...I just _felt_ it."

"Drax called it a 'Warrior's Bond.'" I pause before adding, "Please tell me he's okay."

"He's being treated on the Starmedical Transport lead," Gamora confirms, "He's in good hands. And...Mantis is on route."

"Guess we've uncovered a few more pieces to the puzzle," I draw Gamora off the floor and into my arms, whispering in her ear, "thank you for coming after me."

She pulls me in tight, nods into my chest. And it feels _so_ good to be reunited with my family...and with her. Sigh. I know it's going to be rough, but I'm finally ready to share more information with her about what went down on Ego's planet. I owe it to myself. Hell, I owe it to her.

* * *

Chapter 12: TBD


	13. Chapter twelve: Mining

_Remember the day I set you free_ _  
_ _I told you you could always count on me darling_ _  
_ _From that day on, I made a vow_ _  
_ _I'll be there when you want me_ _  
_ _Some way, some how_

 _-_ Lyrics from _Ain't No Mountain High Enough_

* * *

Chapter Twelve: Mining

 _3S-X-Mining Colony VIII_

"Look at _this_ , Quill."

"Very decorative," I extend my hand and accept a dagger the size of my forearm, "For you?" I turn the blade in my hand, feigning the deepest level of interest, "Because it's not really Gamora's style."

"This is not for Gamora!" Drax's tone is equal parts irritated and bemused, "She would not use any weapon outside of her Gosslinger!"

"God-slayer?" I sputter, doing everything I can to not break into a fit of laughter. Yes. I am beyond relieved that Drax is back in the pink.

"Like I _said_ , Quill. Gosslinger!" Drax reiterates, "But, no. _This_ dagger is not for _me_! It's too small. I was thinking…..for Mantis."

Drax face lights up upon pronouncing Mantis' name. It's clear that he has made up his mind, and he might not even have been truly fishing for constructive feedback….and that's fine. His relationship with Mantis is interesting. It makes me hopeful to believe Drax might be able to move on past debilitating tragedies, "Well that makes sense," I support wholeheartedly, "The tradesman has indicated that the space masks are ready. If you want me to throw this in, I can pay for them."

"I _have_ my own credits, Quill," Drax huffs, "I am a warrior, I don't require charity."

"It's not like that," I explain, "I didn't mean to cross a line, uh, you know, now that I'm purchasing the custom helmets, the tradesman might, you know…?" I raise my right eyebrow, and wink with the opposite eye.

"I do not know what you are trying to convey, companion."

"Bartering, Drax," I'm flat out exasperated, "You know, the tradesman might throw in the dagger for free."

The confusion on Drax's dimpled face reads like suspicion. I throw my shoulders up briefly, a smile working at the edges of my face, "All good, fellow warrior?"

Drax humphs, "Raised by Ravagers, always a Ravager."

I proudly accept Drax's pronouncement before taking the goods to the counter to complete our transaction with _Custom Works VIII_.

Drax watches my interaction with the lead tradesman with intense curiosity, and when all is said and done, I hand him the purchased dagger, wrapped in a soft emerald fabric. Drax marvels at the handiwork, "this fabric is Mantis' color," he pauses to unwrap the weapon, carefully swaddled in valley folds, "you have many gifts, companion."

"Thanks, Drax. I know how important Mantis is to you," I pause, uncertain how to proceed, "do you think she's the right one for you?"

"How do you mean?"

"That you are meant to be together, that you have that 'special thing.'"

"Hahaahahahahaha!" Drax laughs heartily, "No Quill! Hahahahaahaha. Mantis the right one? She is revolting. How could you think that I could like her in such a manner?"

"She's not really revolting," I murmur, wondering what physical characteristics Hovat expressed, "I mean, take Gamora. She's attractive, right?"

"You don't need to hear my opinion on the matter, companion," Drax resituates the dagger in the fabric and carefully places it in a side pant leg pocket, "you told me that you felt drawn to Gamora the moment you laid eyes on her. That is the warrior's bond."

"Well," I sigh, "Sure. But even if Gamora and I didn't have the 'warrior's bond' thing, I think she'd still have the same effect on me. I mean, you know, it's because she's very attractive: both physically and how she carries herself."

"It is because Yondu dragged you from whorehouse to whorehouse that your sense of what is attractive is skewed. Gamora is classically whorish, and I should not fancy a such a woman."

"Good to know," I bristle, "I guess it's good that we have different tastes. That being said, do you think you'll find another one? Like Hovat?"

"Your inexperience with women is showing, Quill. Another one? Your words are irrational. That is what was so precious to me about my Hovet. There was, and remains, only one. And for you, Gamora is your Hovet. Always treasure that connection."

I pause to find the right words, "On Terra, when one terran feels that way about the other, they call it 'love at first sight.' And that's how it was when I first laid eyes on Gamora."

"She made your nether regions engorge," Drax concludes, "Your meeting was no accident. The bond you share is rare, companion. Never forget this."

"When I was captured, in my thoughts, I called out to Gamora. And somehow, Gamora was able to track me down. Is that part of the warrior's bond? Have you ever heard of phenomena like that?"

"Only in legends," Drax detours us down a side passageway as the streets are much more populated at this juncture, "as the warrior bond in itself is not a common phenomena."

"Is the warrior's bond the reason why Gamora was able to stay connected? Find me?"

"I wish I knew more," Drax shakes his head, the thick muscles on either side form perfect triangles, and prevent a full range of motion, "Other than I said before, ones with this bond are connected by a powerful force like that of a planet and a moon. Perhaps you should ask Gamora? The Zen Whoberis were a tribe of warriors. This trait could be unique to her people."

Drax is right. I haven't had my heart to heart with her. And it's not that I don't want to probe more about this particular subject, it's just that I need to be straight with her about what happened on Ego's planet. And up until now, I haven't been emotionally ready. So, uh, yeah. I'm avoiding.

* * *

Alternating sheets of warm hued spotlights criss-cross in straight lines from the high vaulted ceiling. The beams strike random patterns against this multi-level 'watering hole.' Gamora has settled comfortably in a booth with her back to the wall – one that provides her a full view of all the exits. That's my girl. She always knows the safest seat in the house.

"How'd you manage?" I sidle up next to her, placing two mugs of clear liquid on the table, "I mean, this is the best seat in the house." I push one mug in front of her and cradle the second in my left hand, adding, "I took the liberty to order some appetizers."

"Appetizers?"

"An assortment of popular foods that, separately, don't really make a full meal. But they are very tasty." I explain lamely.

"Interesting." Gamora, "A Terra term? In my experience, at a bar, one finds mood enhancing beverages and insubstantial snacks."

"Yeah," I shrug, "pretty much that, but it's more substantial than peanuts or popcorn – not that that description helps clears up any confusion. Sheesh," I lower head to hide a somewhat exasperated expression, "I see Drax and Mantis, but where'd we lose the Rat and Twig?"

A slow smile plays on her face, as if she's become accustomed to my strange mannerisms, "What?"

"It's nothing," I take in a deep breath, "I mean, I need to find better ways to communicate with you."

She smiles warmly before directing my attention with her eyes, "Rocket and Groot are at closest gambling facility. Straight ahead past the bar, then left towards outer wing."

"No surprises there," I pour some liquid down my throat. My eyes double in size as the liquid coats and burns all the way down. I look down at my lap, but not fast enough to see that she's bemused at my weak Terran constitution.

"It _is_ strong," I feel her hand on my arm, a constant sign of support. Her fingers playfully knead my right bicep.

The burning sensation is dissipating in patches, I clear my throat and find my voice, "After we get out of here, let's find a quiet place. I've been meaning to find the right time…..find the time to talk to you about so many things, so many things I should have shared with you before."

Gamora nods, and then takes a large mouthful of the alien brew, "Before we go….I've not forgotten your promise, Peter Quill."

"I'm sorry?" I nearly choke on my second sip, a warmth courses through my body, even as my tongue feels as if it is on fire.

"You will teach me your Terran dance moves."

And without hesitation, I lead her towards an open space away from a cluster of tables and chairs. I unhook the Zune from my belt and scroll through the contents, "This one," I mutter, while handing her an earbud, placing the other in my right, "we'll have to stay close," I direct as Sam Cooke's voice croons softly.

A smile plays on Gamora's face when she recognizes the lilting voice. Now my heart is full, for what I have before me is a closeness I haven't felt since, since forever….since before mom was sick. Gamora falls into my movement, my left hand guiding her from the small of her back. We fold into the melody; the imaginary dance floor is ours alone. Perhaps it is the alcohol that fills my veins, convolutes my vision, for the background scenery instantaneously becomes less interesting, less important. Gamora and I cut through the spaces in-between, and our makeshift dance floor becomes a haven for two grown up orphaned children….two grown ups who are now pleasantly surprised that they've both found something substantial to hold on to.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: TBD

Sorry for the long wait! Work blew up on me. At least one more chapter to go - with what I hope will be less lag in-between. Enjoy!


	14. Chapter thirteen: Rediscover

_All the times that I cried_  
 _Keeping all the things I knew inside_  
 _It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it_

\- Lyrics from _Father and Son_

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Rediscover

 _The Gateway Hotel & Casino, __3S-X-Mining Colony VIII_

"Quill!"

Rocket's sharp hail punctures the air, splintering through a cacophony of intoxicated aliens. I startle from the overpowering memory of a tantalizing moment that occurred only Earth-minutes prior: one where I find myself interlocked with the most dangerous woman in the universe on a makeshift dancefloor somewhere in the middle of the main floor of a casino on a remote mining colony. Romantic? Hell yeah!

Considering Rocket's myopia and the low lighting, I'm surprised the modified Racoon can identify me from roughly ten paces away.

"Quill. Quill!" Rocket demands, his words somewhat garbled, indicating he may be equally intoxicated, "Come here, Quill. I've something to show you."

Hmmm. Can I play off like I can't hear him? Maybe he'll think he identified the wrong "humie." _Ha, stupid Terran!_ Yondu would consistently chide me when I made obvious Terran-centric assumptions. _The rat can smell you._

Unable to dodge his request without incurring injury, I decide against ignoring Rocket. Afterall, I have a viable excuse, "Sorry, Rocket. Gotta use the head." I tip my head towards a poorly lit hallway at the back of the main level. Rocket's eyes narrow slightly before returning to their usual calculating size. Although the change is subtle, it's an obvious tell. Rocket turns to the side, muttering something unintelligible to what appears to be empty space. Following Rocket's line of vision, my hunch is confirmed when I am able to make out the top of Groot's knotted forehead. Groot pitches forward and waves his hand wildly from side to side.

"Hi," I return Groot's airy smile and wave.

"I am Groot! I am Groot."

"Sorry, Groot. I have to use the bathroom."

"Yeah, okay Quill," Rocket winks, "But after you've relieved yourself, you're gonna come back and admire my stroke of genius."

One double-take later, and I can make out an ungodly pile of credits at his end of the table. I'm not sure how Rocket's pulling it off, but I am pretty sure it's illegal.

"Dammit," I march forward until I can smell the alien brew seeping from beneath the root of his matted fur, "C'mon man. Groot is... you're teaching Groot to cheat? Perhaps you don't mind the cramped bunk beds of the Milano, but I put in overnight reservations at this joint. You get arrested, you're on your own."

"Fine, Quill. Because after this win, you'll be begging me to stay on with the Guardians."

"Beg? Really?" I growl. Nature calls. End of conversation. Which is probably a good thing. Alcohol has a tendency to put me in a much less tolerant mood. And considering how long it's taken me to mend fences with Rocket ...

The hallway narrows as the familiar stench of an intergalactic restroom begins to overcome all other senses. Then again, my fleeting sense of sight might also be explained by the small number of working light bulbs - the majority of which are flickering incoherently. Yondu said that these types of joints were the hallmark of Ravager success. Low lighting plus is a plus for the process of thievery, illicit trading, sexual encounters, and in this scenario, help obfuscate a slew of disgusting fluids that I'm gingerly stepping over. Yes, it's safe to say that all of the above are taking place all around me in an assortment of clusters. I initiate my helmet for two distinct purposes: to take advantage of the night vision component and to help filter out the noxious fumes.

Predictably, the bathroom facilities are both disturbing and disgusting. After relieving myself, I inspect my mug in the mirror after sanitizing my hands. What I see isn't half bad, but I've looked better. I need to shave, and a decent haircut, too. I unsuccessfully attempt to control a handful of hair that willfully stands upright thanks to an unruly cowlick. Sigh. It's a good thing Gamora doesn't have any other Terran to compare me to. I mean, I think I've got some rugged charm, but I certainly am no Harrison Ford or Dirk Benedict. Just as I check my teeth and raise my right arm to ensure that I still smell fresh, I hear Gamora's familiar battle cry. In a heartbeat, I'm back in the corridor.

Out of my peripheral, I catch sight of Gamora overpowering a humanoid male two times her size. Reinitiating my helmet, the analyzer confirms and illuminates what appears to be the root of the scuffle: an injured female barmaid slumped over against the corridor wall. When I see two well-built males barrel forward to join the battle from the opposite direction, I predict the worst.

Pulling out my quad blasters. I fire at all foreign parties, sans top barrel for non-lethal results.

"Peter!" Gamora warns, "behind you!"

I turn on my heel, lower my center of gravity and swirl. Preparing for a blow, I hope that my reaction time is not compromised by the alien ale. Upon impact, I am cognizant that my quad blaster is knocked loose when my opponent's weapon strikes my right arm full force. The other blaster gripped tightly in my left-hand fires rapidly from both barrels, instantly dropping my attacker, "What the hell is going on!?"

"Three more," Gamora pants, her sword punctuating the air after she levels two more burly opponents. I watch, five parts awe and the five parts pure adrenaline, "Get down if you value your life," I holler, stunning any unknown figure who has the audacity to move in either my or Gamora's general direction.

* * *

 _Several hours later, Room 2225, three floors above the casino level_

"At least they weren't Ravagers," I offer, "How did the victim fare?"

"Better than you," Gamora frowns, inspecting a wound that runs several inches along the base of my neck, "How'd you get that?"

"Mmmm," I ponder, turning profile to the small hotel room sink, an angry red line demarcates the delicate space between my helmet and jacket, "looks like someone wanted to take my head off."

Gamora inspects the wound, "We need to treat this immediately."

"Speaking of helmets," I offer, "On Earth, this might be considered something akin to an engagement ring."

"What is an engagement ring?"

Reaching into my knapsack, I present Gamora with the custom-built helmet I commissioned specifically for her.

"It's a Terran tradition," I explain, "A tradition where a man gives the woman he's 'head over heels' about a precious gift so that he might demonstrate his level of commitment to her." I flash my best smile, holding the helmet out for her to inspect, "far better than a ring in my opinion."

"Head over heels, Peter?"

"A Terran saying that translates roughly to 'some unspoken thing.'"

Gamora nods wordlessly, cradling the helmet in both hands. Even though a magenta tipped curtain of hair, her expression deepens as she rotates the work of art a full three-hundred and sixty degrees. She's beaming. And for me, her body language and facial expression are priceless.

"Now all you need is the implant," I offer, watching her put the helmet in place over her face. _Not bad, Quill. It's a perfect fit._

"Thank you."

"You are more than welcome," I clear my throat, before leaning forward to plant a kiss on her forehead, "I didn't know how you might feel about me after what went down on Ego's planet. After I lost my powers, I, uh...I guess I wanted to say that I am sorry for how I behaved. I was acting like an idiot."

"Your celestial powers?" After carefully setting the helmet on the glass countertop, Gamora begins rummaging through her personal knapsack, "But you didn't lose them..." Gamora pauses briefly, before placing a first aid kit on the sink countertop, "...and that you feel the need to provide an explanation. One moment. Don't move. Hold still."

"Fuuuuuu-ahhhhhhhhhhh," I pant in pain as my neck throbs angrily. The antiseptic burns like a thousand paper cuts. My eyes water and blur. I abruptly walk out of the small washroom to pace the floor - mostly because I don't want Gamora to see me this agitated over an antiseptic.

"You and me," I pause as a second round of searing pain briefly silences me, "It's uh, it's not going to be easy."

"Nothing worth value is."

"I guess you are right," my finger gently probes inches from the wound.

"Peter. Don't." Gamora irritates, "Please. Now let's take a look at that injury on your arm."

I start rolling up the sides of the undershirt as Gamora uses a knife to cut the fabric back in order to expose the wound, "I guess what I was trying to get at when I said that 'it's not going to be easy for us' is... well, I mean, I ... I have some serious issues to work through. I'm pretty raw after everything that's happened, Yondu, Ego..."

Gamora swallows with difficulty, all the while nodding encouragingly. As she lifts my arm, her expression falls abruptly, "Dammit, Peter."

"What?"

"You bruise so easily."

Her touch is gentle, but the without the pressure of the undershirt, or maybe it's the exposure to the air that causes the injury to ache. Either way, I do my best not to flinch.

"Your Terran skin is so thin..."

"But for my celestial half, I guess I'm not meant for the rigors of a space battle. I mean, I saw how many guys you took out to help that unarmed barmaid...and somehow you managed to come out unscathed."

"Not unscathed. I just heal faster. Modifications."

"Hell, Gamora," I shake my head and set down roughly on the bed.

Undeterred, Gamora leans in to apply some antibiotic ointment to the angry red skin at the base of my head. Then gently, wipes the blood from the swelling contusion on my forearm.

"Thanos spent years training me as a weapon. It's what I am good at."

"Good? You're the best. I guess my nerves are still raw, and my ability to feel safe even amongst friends has been violated. Most of that comes down to Ego. That a-hole was supposed to care about me. How could he? How could he?"

Gamora's head tilts to the side, unable to mask a pained expression, "He was a malicious being," She speaks in a low clear voice, "he manipulated you and misused his power. As your father, he should have been the one that loved and protected you. And not only you, he should have looked after you and your mother."

"He killed my mom," I whisper shakily, "he gave her cancer, and she never knew. People, all of her friends, even her own family... thought she was crazy."

Gamora's eyes narrow, "Reprehensible."

"Then," I pause overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions. I know I've got to tell her, but I don't know how, "then when he was draining the power from me, he ... he took the Walkman, and I couldn't do anything, you know? He just crushed it in front of my eyes, he just took the only thing…." And I can't see Gamora anymore because my eyes and nose are leaking everywhere.

"Peter. Peter. Peter." Like a mantra, she whispers it into my skin. I feel her eyelashes flutter against my cheek.

Hours later, she speaks into the crook of my neck. She knows I'm awake, knows I can't sleep. It's not the pain from tonight's fresh wounds.

Gamora's small, strong hand covers mine, her thumb rubs a small horizontal scar that runs just below the line of my knuckles on my right hand. She knows this scar with intimacy, for she gave it to me on that fateful day we met on Xandar.

"When Mantis said, 'you are scared.' I was terrified. As it was when Thanos murdered my parents. It was an indescribable moment of helplessness... I couldn't help them. I was seconds from losing the people that I loved permanently..."

Listening to Gamora, my muscles tense, my heart constricts. The terror of helplessness overwhelms me as I'm brought back to that terrible instant where I'm watching Yondu die in front of me all over again.

"...before then, I had never known such terror... until that awful moment when I thought I wouldn't be able to help you."

"Is that when you first felt the unspoken thing?"

"I felt it before," she softly concedes.

"Hmm. I think I saw it before."

"When?"

"In Ego's core. First time I saw you after Yondu's rig blew up."

Gamora nods, "At first, I only saw Nebula make it out on time. I thought I'd lost you forever."

I breathe her in deeply, kissing her gently on the ridge of her cheekbone, "We make an interesting team."

"Ha," Gamora laughs, "a deadly assassin and a Terran celestial."

"Not a particularly reckless combination..." I offer playfully, goading her gently. We tangle and twist. Gamora is so mindful of my wounds, both external and internal. All I can do is try my best to be equally aware of hers.

And that's, that. I'm still Star-Lord, the reckless hybrid Terran celestial. My amazing family consists of the most dangerous woman in the universe, a warrior destroyer intent on taking out the most powerful cosmic warlord in the galaxy, a genius raccoon, and a teenage tree. Some think we're a bunch of misfits. And, hell, that's pretty accurate. But as I've reminded some of the biggest a-holes in the sector, "You've said it yourself, bitch. We're the Guardians of the Galaxy."

* * *

 _Thank you to all who have read this series and reviewed. Especially to A. Marvelite who has been a loyal reader, reviewer and has tried to help me keep this story on track. After the 2018 Infinity Wars, hopefully, I'll feel inspired to kick out something pre-Volume 3. Until then!_


End file.
